AN    ARKANSAS    PLANTER. 


An   Arkansas   Planter 


OPIE    READ. 


COVER  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  W.   W.   DENSLOW  AND    IKE  MORGAN. 


CHICAGO   AND  NEW  YORK- 
RAND,   McNALLY  &   COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright,  1896,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 


PS 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Lying  along  the  Arkansas  River,  a  few  miles 
below  Little  Rock,  there  is  a  broad  strip  of  coun 
try  that  was  once  the  domain  of  a  lordly  race  of 
men.  They  were  not  lordly  in  the  sense  of  con 
quest;  no  rusting  armor  hung  upon  their  walls; 
no  ancient  blood-stains  blotched  their  stairways 
— there  were  no  skeletons  in  dungeons  deep  be 
neath  the  banquet  hall.  But  in  their  own  opinion 
they  were  just  as  great  as  if  they  had  possessed 
these  gracious  marks  of  medieval  distinction. 
Their  country  was  comparatively  new,  but  their 
fathers  came  mostly  from  Virginia  and  their 
whisky  came  wholly  from  Kentucky.  Their  cot 
ton  brought  a  high  price  in  the  Liverpool  mar 
ket,  their  daughters  were  celebrated  for  beauty, 
and  their  sons  could  hold  their  own  with  the 
poker  players  that  traveled  up  and  down  the 
Mississippi  River.  The  slave  trade  had  been 
abolished,  and,  therefore,  what  remained  of  slav 
ery  was  right;  and  in  proof  of  it  the  pulpit  con 
tributed  its  argument.  Negro  preachers  with 
wives  scattered  throughout  the  community  urged 
their  fellow  bondsmen  to  drop  upon  their  knees 
5 


6  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

and  thank  God  for  the  privilege  of  following  a 
mule  in  a  Christian  land.  The  merciless  work 
of  driving  the  negroes  to  their  tasks  was  per 
formed  by  men  from  the  North.  Many  a  son  of 
New  England,  who,  with  emotion,  had  listened 
to  Phillips  and  to  Garrison,  had  afterward  hired 
his  harsh  energies  to  the  slave  owner.  And  it 
was  this  hard  driving  that  taught  the  negro 
vaguely  to  despise  the  abolitionist.  But  as  a 
class  the  slaves  were  not  unhappy.  They  were 
ignorant,  but  the  happiest  song  is  sometimes 
sung  by  ignorance.  They  believed  the  Bible  as 
read  to  them  by  the  preachers,  and  the  Bible 
told  them  that  God  had  made  them  slaves ;  so,  at 
evening,  they  twanged  rude  strings  and  danced 
the  "buck"  under  the  boughs  of  the  cotton-wood 
tree. 

On  the  vine-shaded  veranda  the  typical  old 
planter  was  wont  to  sit,  looking  up  and  down  the 
road,  watching  for  a  friend  or  a  stranger — any 
one  worthy  to  drink  a  gentleman's  liquor,  sir. 
His  library  was  stocked  with  romances.  He 
knew  English  history  as  handed  down  to  him 
by  the  sentimentalist.  He  hated  the  name  of 
king,  but  revered  an  aristocracy.  No  business 
was  transacted  under  his  roof;  the  affairs  of  his 
estate  were  administered  in  a  small  office,  situ 
ated  at  the  corner  of  the  yard.  His  wife  and 
daughters,  arrayed  in  imported  finery,  drove 
about  in  a  carriage.  New  Orleans  was  his  social 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  7 

center,  and  he  had  been  known  to  pay  as  much 
as  a  thousand  dollars  for  a  family  ticket  to  a  ball  at 
the  St.  Charles  hotel.  His  hospitality  was  known 
everywhere.  He  was  slow  to  anger,  except 
when  his  honor  was  touched  upon,  and  then  he 
demanded  an  apology  or  forced  a  fight.  He  was 
humorous,  and  yet  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
dignity  often  restrained  his  enjoyment  of  the 
ludicrous.  When  the  cotton  was  in  bloom  his 
possessions  were  beautiful.  On  a  knoll  he  could 
stand  and  imagine  that  the  world  was  a  sea  of 
purple. 

That  was  the  Arkansas  planter  years  ago,  be 
fore  the  great  sentimental  storm  swept  down 
upon  him,  before  an  evening's  tea-table  talk  in 
Massachusetts  became  a  tornado  of  iron  in  Vir 
ginia.  When  ragged  and  heart-sore  he  re 
turned  from  the  army,  from  as  brave  a  fight  as 
man  ever  engaged  in,  he  sat  down  to  dream  over 
his  vanished  greatness.  But  his  dream  was 
short.  He  went  to  work,  not  to  re-establish  his 
former  condition  of  ease— for  that  hope  was  be 
yond  him — but  to  make  a  living  for  his  family. 

On  a  knoll  overlooking  the  Arkansas  River 
stood  the  Cranceford  homestead.  The  site  was 
settled  in  1832,  by  Captain  Luke  Cranceford, 
who  had  distinguished  himself  in  an  Indian  war. 
And  here,  not  long  afterward,  was  born  John 
Cranceford,  who  years  later  won  applause  as 
commander  of  one  of  the  most  stubborn  batteries 


8  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

of  the  Confederate  Army.  The  house  was  origi 
nally  built  of  cypress  logs,  but  as  time  passed  ad 
ditions  of  boards  and  brick  were  made,  resulting 
in  a  formless  but  comfortable  habitation,  with 
broad  passage  ways  and  odd  lolling  places  set  to 
entrap  cool  breezes.  The  plantation  comprised 
about  one  thousand  acres.  The  land  for  the 
most  part  was  level,  but  here  and  there  a  hill 
arose,  like  a  sudden  jolt.  From  right  to  left  the 
tract  was  divided  by  a  bayou,  slow  and  dark. 
The  land  was  so  valuable  that  most  of  it  had 
been  cleared  years  ago,  but  in  the  wooded 
stretches  the  timber  was  thick,  and  in  places  the 
tops  of  the  trees  were  laced  together  with  wild 
grape  vines.  Far  away  was  a  range  of  pine-cov 
ered  hills,  blue  cones  in  the  distance.  And  here 
lived  the  poorer  class  of  people,  farmers  who 
could  not  hope  to  look  to  the  production  of  cot 
ton,  but  who  for  a  mere  existence  raised  thin 
hogs  and  nubbins  of  corn.  In  the  lowlands  the 
plantations  were  so  large  and  the  residences  so 
far  apart  that  the  country  would  have  appeared 
thinly  settled  but  for  the  negro  quarters  here  and 
there,  log  villages  along  the  bayous. 

In  this  neighborhood  Major  John  Cranceford 
was  the  most  prominent  figure  The  county  was 
named  in  honor  of  his  family.  He  was  called  a 
progressive  man.  He  accepted  the  yoke  of  re 
construction  and  wore  it  with  a  laugh,  until  it 
pinched,  and  then  he  said  nothing,  except  to  tell 


THE  CBANCEFORD  HOMESTEAD. 

his  neighbors  that  a  better  time  was  coming. 
And  it  came.  The  years  passed,  and  a  man  who 
had  been  prominent  in  the  Confederate  council 
became  Attorney-General  of  the  American  Na 
tion,  and  men  who  had  led  desperate  charges 
against  the  Federal  forces  made  speeches  in  the 
old  capitol  at  Washington.  And  thus  the  world 
was  taught  a  lesson  of  forgiveness — of  the  true 
greatness  of  man. 

In  New  Orleans  the  Major  was  known  as  a 
character,  and  his  nerve  was  not  merely  a  mat- 


10  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

ter  of  conjecture.  Courage  is  supposed  to  hold 
a  solemn  aspect,  but  the  Major  was  the  embodi 
ment  of  heartiness.  His  laugh  was  catching; 
even  the  negroes  had  it,  slow,  loud  and  long. 
Sometimes  at  morning  when  a  change  of  season 
had  influenced  him,  he  would  slowly  stride  up 
and  down  the  porch,  seeming  to  shake  with 
joviality  as  he  walked.  Years  ago  he  had  served 
as  captain  of  a  large  steamboat,  and  this  at  times 
gave  him  an  air  of  bluff  authority.  He  was  a 
successful  river  man,  and  was  therefore  noted  for 
the  vigor  and  newness  of  his  profanity.  His 
wife  was  deeply  religious,  and  year  after  year  she 
besought  him  to  join  the  church,  pleaded  with 
him  at  evening  when  the  two  children  were 
kissed  good  night — and  at  last  he  stood  the 
rector's  cross-examination  and  had  his  name 
placed  upon  the  register.  It  was  a  hard  strug 
gle,  but  he  weeded  out  his  oaths  until  but  one 
was  left — a  bold  "by  the  blood."  He  said  that 
he  would  part  even  with  this  safety  valve  but 
that  it  would  require  time;  and  it  did.  The 
Major  believed  in  the  gradual  moral  improve 
ment  of  mankind,  but  he  swore  that  the  world 
intellectually  was  going  to  the  devil.  And  for 
this  conviction  he  had  a  graded  proof.  "Listen 
to  me  a  minute,"  he  was  wont  to  say.  "I'll  make 
it  clear  to  you.  My  grandfather  was  graduated 
with  great  honors  from  Harvard,  my  father  was 
graduated  with  honor.  I  got  through  all  right, 
but  my  son  Tom  failed." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  11 


CHAPTER  II. 

One  hot  afternoon  the  Major  sat  in  his  library. 
The  doors  were  open  and  a  cool  breeze,  making 
the  circuitous  route  of  the  passage  ways,  swept 
through  the  room,  bulging  a  newspaper  which 
he  held  opened  oat  in  front  of  him.  He  was 
scanning  the  headlines  to  catch  the  impulsive 
moods  of  the  world.  The  parlor  was  not  far 
away,  down  the  hall,  and  voices  reached  him. 
And  then  there  came  the  distressing  hack,  hack, 
of  a  hollow  cough.  He  put  down  the  news 
paper,  got  up,  and  slowly  strode  about  the  room, 
not  shaking  with  joviality  as  he  walked.  In  the 
parlor  the  voices  were  hushed,  there  was  a  long 
silence,  and  then  came  the  hollow  cough.  He 
sat  down  and  again  took  up  the  newspaper,  but 
the  cough,  hack,  hack,  smote  him  like  the  recur 
rence  of  a  distressing  thought,  and  he  crumpled 
the  paper  and  threw  it  upon  the  floor.  Out  in 
the  yard  a  negro  woman  was  singing;  far  down 
the  stream  a  steamboat  whistled.  And  again  came 
the  hollow  cough.  There  was  another  long 
silence,  and  then  he  heard  light  footsteps  in  the 
hall.  A  young  woman  halted  at  the  door  and 
stood  looking  at  him.  Her  face  was  pale  and  ap 


12  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

peared  thin,  so  eager  was  her  expression.  She 
was  slight  and  nervous. 

"Well,"  he  said.  She  smiled  at  him  and  said, 
"Well."  Then  she  slowly  entered  the  room,  and 
with  a  sigh  took  a  seat  near  him.  The  cough 
from  the  parlor  was  more  distressful,  and  she 
looked  at  him,  and  in  her  eyes  was  a  beseeching 
sadness. 

"Louise." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 

"Don't  say  that,  for  you  do  know." 

"You've  told  me  so  many  things — 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  what  did  I  tell  you  about 
Carl  Pennington?'' 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 

"Yes  you  do.  I  told  you  that  I  didn't  want 
him  to  come  here.  Didn't  I?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  why  is  he  here?" 

"I  met  him  and  invited  him  to  come." 

"Ah,  ha.  But  I  don't  want  him  here;  don't 
want  you  to  see  him." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  as  if  she  would  study 
every  line  of  his  face.  He  shoved  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets  and  looked  down.  The 
cough  came  again,  and  he  looked  at  the  girl. 
"You  know  the  reason  I  don't  want  you  to  see 
him.  Don't  you?" 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  13 

"Yes,  sir;  and  I  know  the  reason  why  I  do 
want  to  see  him." 

"The  devil — pardon  me,"  he  quickly  added, 
withdrawing  his  hands  from  his  pockets  and 
bowing  to  her.  She  slightly  inclined  her  head 
and  smiled  sadly.  He  looked  hard  at  her,  striv 
ing  to  read  her  thoughts;  and  she  was  so  frail, 
her  face  was  so  thin  and  her  eyes  so  wistful  that 
she  smote  him  with  pity.  He  reached  over  and 
took  one  of  her  hands,  and  affectionately  she 
gave  him  the  other  one.  She  tried  to  laugh. 
The  cough  came  again,  and  she  took  her  hands 
away.  He  reached  for  them,  but  she  put  them 
behind  her.  "No,  not  until  I  have  told  you,"  she 
said,  and  he  saw  her  lip  tremble.  "He  was 
afraid  to  come  in  here  to  see  you,"  she  went  on, 
speaking  with  timid  slowness.  "He  is  so  weak 
and  sick  that  he  can't  stand  to  be  scolded,  so  I 
have  come  to — "  She  hesitated.  He  shoved 
himself  back  and  looked  hard  at  her,  and  his  eye 
brows  stuck  out  fiercely. 

"To  ask  me  what?"  His  voice  was  dry  and 
rasping.  "What  can  you  ask  me?  To  let  him 
come  here  to  see  you?  No,  daughter.  I  can't 
permit  that.  And  I  don't  intend  to  be  cruel  when 
I  say  this.  I  am  sorry  for  him,  God  knows  I 
deeply  sympathize  with  him,  but  he  must  not 
hope  to — " 

"I  was  not  going  to  ask  you  to  let  him  come," 


14  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

she  broke  in.  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me 
go — go  with  him." 

"By  the  blood!"  the  Major  exclaimed,  jump 
ing  to  his  feet.  "What  do  you  mean?  Marry 
him?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  quietly  answered.  He  looked 
at  her,  frowning,  his  face  puffed,  his  brows 
jagged.  And  then  appearing  to  master  himself 
he  sat  down  and  strove  to  take  her  hand,  but  she 
held  it  behind  her.  "My  daughter,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you,  not  in  anger,  but  with  common  sense. 
It  actually  horrifies  me  to  think  of  your  mar 
riage — I  can't  do  it,  that's  all.  Why,  the  poor 
fellow  can't  live  three  months;  he  is  dead  on  his 
feet  now.  Listen  at  that  cough.  Louise,  how 
can  you  think  of  marrying  him?  Haven't  you 
any  judgment  at  all?  Is  it  possible  that  you 
have  lost — but  I  won't  scold  you ;  I  must  reason 
with  you.  There  is  time  enough  for  you  to 
marry,  and  the  sympathetic  fancy  that  you  have 
for  that  poor  fellow  will  soon  pass  away.  It 
must.  You've  got  plenty  of  chances.  Jim  Tay 
lor—" 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  him,  father?" 

"I  speak  of  him  because  he  loves  you — be 
cause  he  is  as  fine  a  young  fellow  as  walks  the 
face  of  the  earth." 

"But,  father,  he  is  so  big  and  strong  that  he 
doesn't  need  any  one  to  love  him." 

At   this   the    Major  appeared    not   to   know 


whether  to  laugh  or  to  frown. 
But  he  did  neither;  he  sat  for 
a  time  with  his  hands  on  his 
knees,    looking    wonderingly, 
almost  stupidly   at  her;    and 
then     he     said:       "Nonsense. 
Where  did  you  pick  up  that 
preposterous  idea?   So  strong  - 
that  he  doesn't  need  love!  Why,  strength 
demands  love,  and  to  a  big  man  the  love 
of   a   little   woman — "     She    drew    back 
from  him  as  he  leaned  toward  her  and  he 
did  not  complete  the  sentence.     Her  im 
patience  made  him  frown.    "Won't  you 
let    me    reason    with    you?"    he    asked. 
"Won't  you  help  me  to  suppress  all  ap 
pearance  of  displeasure?" 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  she  replied. 

"What  is  of  no  use?     Reason?" 

"Argument." 

"What!     Do  you  mean—" 

"I  mean  that  I  am  going  to  marry  him." 

In  her  eyes  there  was  no  appeal,  no  pleading, 
for  the  look  that  she  gave  him  was  hard  and  de 
termined.  Harsh  words  flew  to  the  Major's 
mind,  and  he  shook  with  the  repression  of  them ; 
but  he  was  silent.  He  shoved  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  she  heard  his  keys  rattling.  He 
arose  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  now,  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

15 


'MARRY  HIM?" 


18  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

Suddenly  he  faced  about  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  her,  at  the  rose  in  her  hair. 

"Louise,  one  night  on  a  steamboat  there  was  a 
rollicking  dance.  It  was  a  moonlight  excur 
sion.  There  was  a  splash  and  a  cry  that  a  woman 
had  fallen  overboard.  I  leaped  into  the  river, 
grasped  her,  held  her  head  above  the  stream, 
fighting  the  current.  A  boat  was  put  out  and  we 
were  taken  on  board,  and  then  by  the  light  of  a 
lantern  I  found  that  I  had  saved  the  life  of  my 
own  daughter.  So,  upon  you,  I  have  more  than 
a  father's  claim — the  claim  of  gallantry,  and  this 
you  cannot  disregard,  and  upon  it  I  base  my 
plea." 

She  looked  up  straight  at  him;  her  lips  were 
half  open,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  he  added, 
seeming  to  stiffen  his  shoulders  in  resentment  at 
the  calmness  with  which  she  regarded  him.  "I 
tell  you  that  I  waive  the  authority  of  a  father 
and  appeal  to  your  gratitude ;  I  remind  you  that 
I  saved  your  life — leaped  into  the  cold  water  and 
seized  you,  not  knowing  whose  life  I  was  striv 
ing  to  save  at  the  risk  of  losing  my  own.  Isn't 
that  worth  some  sort  of  return?  Isn't  it  worth 
even  the  sacrifice  of  a  whim?  Louise,  don't  look 
at  me  that  way.  Is  it  possible  that  you  don't 
grasp — "  He  hesitated  and  turned  his  face 
toward  the  parlor  whence  came  again  the  cough, 
hollow  and  distressing.  The  sound  died  away. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  17 

echoing  down  the  hall,  and  a  hen  clucked  on  the 
porch  and  a  passage  door  slammed. 

"Louise,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  catch—" 

"I  catch  everything,  father.  It  was  noble  of 
you  to  jump  into  the  river  when  you  didn't  know 
but  that  you  might  be  drowned,  and  recognizing 
that  you  risked  your  life,  and  feeling  a  deep 
gratitude,  it  is  hard  to  repay  you  with  disobedi 
ence.  Wait  a  moment,  please.  You  must  listen 
to  me.  It  is  hard  to  repay  you  with  disobedi 
ence,  but  it  cannot  be  helped.  You  say  that  Mr. 
Pennington  is  dying  and  I  know  that  you  speak 
the  truth.  He  knows  that  he  is  dying,  and  he 
appeals  to  me  not  to  let  him  die  alone-— not  alone 
in  words,"  she  quickly  added,  "but  with  some 
thing  stronger  than  words,  his  helplessness,  his 
despair.  Other  people  have  appeared  to  shun 
him  because  he  is  dying,  but — " 

"Hold  on,"  -he  broke  in.  "I  deny  that  No 
one  has  shunned  him  because  he  is  dying. 
Everybody  is  sorry  for  him,  and  you  know  that  I 
would  do  anything  for  him." 

"Would  you?  Then  let  him  die  under  this 
roof  as  my  husband.  Oh,  look  how  poor  and 
thin  he  is,  so  helpless,  and  dying  day  by  day, 
with  no  relatives  near  him,  with  nothing  in  pros 
pect  but  long  nights  of  suffering.  Please  don't 
tell  me  that  I  shan't  take  care  of  him,  for  I  feel 


18  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

that  it  is  the  strongest  duty  that  will  ever  come  to 
me.  Listen  how  he  coughs.  Doesn't  it  appeal 
to  you?  How  can  you  refuse — how  can  you  re 
mind  me  of  the  gratitude  I  owe  you?" 

Tears  were  streaming  down  her  face.  He 
bent  over  her,  placed  his  hands  upon  her  cheeks 
and  kissed  her,  but  instantly  he  drew  back  with 
his  resentful  stiffening  of  the  shoulders. 

"Louise,  it  can't  be.  No  argument  and  no 
appeal  can  bring  it  about.  It  makes  me  shudder 
to  think  of  it  Really  I  can't  understand  it.  The 
situation  to  me  is  most  unnatural.  But  I  won't 
be  harsh  with  you.  But  I  must  say  that  I  don't 
know  where  you  get  your  stubbornness.  No,  I 
won't  be  harsh.  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  will 
agree  to  do.  He  may  come  to  this  house  and 
stay  here  until — may  stay  here  and  the  best  of 
care  shall  be  taken  of  him,  and  you  may  nurse 
him,  but  you  must  not  bear  his  name.  Will  you 
agree  to  this?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  had  wiped  away  her 
tears  and  her  eyes  were  strong  and  determined. 
"After  conceding  so  much  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  refuse  the  vital  point,"  she  said. 

"I  can  tell  you  why,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I 
must." 

"Don't  be  afraid;  simply  tell  me." 

"But,  daughter,  it  would  seem  cruel." 

"Not  if  I  demand  it." 

"Then  you  do  demand  it?    Well,  you  shall 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  19 

know.  His  father  served  a  term  in  the  Louisiana 
penitentiary  for  forgery.  And  now  you  may 
ask  why  I  ever  let  him  come  into  this  house.  I 
will  tell  you.  He  had  been  teaching  school  here 
some  time  and  I  said  nothing.  One  day  during 
a  rainstorm  he  stopped  at  the  gate.  He  was  sick 
and  I  invited  him  to  come  in.  After  that  I  could 
not  find  enough  firmness  to  tell  him  not  to  come, 
he  was  so  pale  and  weak.  I  see  now  that  it  was 
a  false  sympathy.  Do  you  understand  me?  His 
father  was  a  convict." 

"Yes,  I  understand.     He  told  me." 

"By  the  blood  on  the  Cross !  Do  you  mean  to 
say — Louise,"  he  broke  off,  gazing  upon  her, 
"your  mind  is  unsettled.  Yes,  you  are  crazy, 
and,  of  course,  all  your  self-respect  is  gone.  You 
needn't  say  a  word,  you  are  crazy.  You  are — I 
don't  know  what  you  are,  but  I  know  what  I  am, 
and  now,  after  the  uselessness  of  my  appeal  to 
your  gratitude,  I  will  assert  the  authority  of  a 
father.  You  shall  not  marry  him." 

"And  would  you  kill  a  dying  man?"  she  quietly 
asked. 

The  question  jolted  him,  and  he  snorted  out: 
"What  do  you  mean  by  such  nonsense?  You 
know  I  wouldn't." 

"Then  I  will  marry  him." 

For  a  moment  the  Major's  anger  choked  him. 
With  many  a  dry  rasp  he  strove  to  speak,  and 
just  as  he  had  made  smoother  a  channel  for  his 


V 

PEXXINGTON  ENTERED. 


words,  he  heard  the  hollow  cough  draw 
ing  nearer.  He  motioned  toward  a  door 
that  opened  in  an  opposite  direction,  and 
the  girl,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  quick 
ly  stepped  out  upon  a  veranda  that  over 
looked  the  river.  The  Major  turned  his 
eyes  toward  the  other  door,  and  there 
Pennington  stood  with  a  handkerchief 
tightly  pressed  to  his  mouth.  For  a  time 
they  were  silent,  one  strong  and  severe, 
the  other  tremulous  and  almost  spectral 
in  the  softened  light. 

"There  is  a  chair,  sir,"  said  the  Major, 
pointing. 

"I  thank  you,  sir;  I  don't  care  to  sit  down. 
I — I  am  very  sorry  that  you  are  compelled  to 
look  upon  me  as — as  you  do,  sir.  And  it  is  all 
my  fault,  I  assure  you,  and  I  can't  defend  my 
self." 

He  dropped  his  handkerchief  and  looked  down 
as  if  he  were  afraid  to  stoop  to  pick  it  up.  The 
Major  stepped  forward,  caught  up  the  handker 
chief,  handed  it  to  him  and  stepped  back. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  Pennington  said,  bowing, 
and  then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  added :  "I  don't 
know  what  to  say  in  explanation  of — of  myself. 
But  I  should  think,  sir,  that  the  strength  of  a 
man's  love  is  a  sufficient  defense  of  any  weak 
ness  he  may  possess — I  mean  a  sufficient  defense 
of  any  indiscretion  that  his  love  has  led  him  to 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


21 


commit.  This  situation  stole  upon  me,  and  I 
was  scarcely  aware  of  its  coming  until  it  was 
"  here.  I  didn't  know  how  serious — "  He 
coughed  his  words,  and  when  he  became  calmer, 
repeated  his  plea  that  love  ought  to  excuse  any 
weakness  in  man.  "Your  daughter  is  an  angel 
of  mercy,"  he  said.  "When  I  found  myself  dying 
as  young  as  I  was  and  as  hopeful  as  I  had  been 
my  soul  filled  up  with  a  bitter  resentment  against 
nature  and  God,  but  she  drew  out  the  bitterness 
and  instilled  a  sweetness  and  a  prayer.  And 
now  to  take  her  from  me  would  be  to 
snatch  away  the  prospect  of  that  peace 
ful  life  that  lies  beyond  the  grave. 
Sir,  I  heard  you  tell  her  that  she 
was  crazy.  If  so, 
then  may  God 
bless  all  such  in 
sanity." 

He  pressed 
the  handkerchief 
to  his  mouth, 
racking,  strug 
gling;  and  when 
the  convulsive 
agony  had 
passed  he  smiled, 
and  there  in  the 
shadow  by  the 
door  the  light 


'THE  WATER  LAPPED  AT  HER  FEET." 


22  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

that  crossed  his  face  was  ghastly,  like  a  dim 
smear  of  phosphorus.  And  now  the  Major's  shoul 
ders  were  not  stiffened  with  resentment;  they 
were  drooping  with  a  pity  that  he  could  not  con 
ceal,  but  his  face  was  hard  set,  the  expression  of 
the  mercy  of  one  man  for  another,  but  also  the 
determination  to  protect  a  daughter  and  the  good 
name  of  an  honored  household. 

"Mr.  Pennington,  I  was  never  so  sorry  for  any 
human  being  as  I  am  for  you  at  this  moment, 
but,  sir,  the  real  blessings  of  this  life  come 
through  justice  and  not  through  impulsive 
mercy.  In  thoughtless  sympathy  a  great  wrong 
may  lie,  and  out  of  a  marriage  with  disease  may 
arise  a  generation  of  misery.  We  are  largely  re 
sponsible  for  the  ailments  of  those  who  are  to 
follow  us.  The  wise  man  looks  to  the  future ;  the 
weak  man  hugs  the  present.  You  say  that  my 
daughter  is  an  angel  of  mercy.  She  has  ever 
been  a  sort  of  sister  of  charity.  I  confess  that  I 
have  never  been  able  wholly  to  understand  her. 
At  times  she  has  even  puzzled  her  mother,  and 
a  daughter  is  odd,  indeed,  when  a  mother  can 
not  comprehend  her.  I  am  striving  to  be  gentle 
with  you,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  you  cannot 
marry  her.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  to  go,  and 
yet  it  is  better  that  this  interview  should  come  to 
a  close." 

He  bowed  to  Pennington  and  turned  toward 
the  veranda  that  overlooked  the  river,  but  a  sup- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  23 

plicating  voice  called  him  back.  "I  wish  to  say," 
said  the  consumptive,  "that  from  your  point  of 
view  you  are  right.  But  that  does  not  alter 
my  position.  You  speak  of  the  misery  that 
arises  from  a  marriage  with  disease.  That  was 
very  well  put,  but  let  me  say,  sir,  that  I  believe 
that  I  am  growing  stronger.  Sometimes  I  have 
thought  that  I  had  consumption,  but  in  my  saner 
moments  I  know  that  I  have  not.  I  can  see  an 
improvement  from  day  to  day.  Several  days 
ago  I  couldn't  help  coughing,  but  now  at  times 
I  can  suppress  it.  I  am  growing  stronger." 

"Sir,"  exclaimed  the  Major,  "if  you  were  as 
strong  as  a  lion  you  should  not  marry  her.  Good 
day." 


24  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Slowly  and  heavily  the  Major  walked  out  upon 
the  veranda.  He  stood  upon  the  steps  leading 
clown  into  the  yard,  and  he  saw  Louise  afar  off 
standing  upon  the  river's  yellow  edge.  She  had 
thrown  her  hat  upon  the  sand,  and  she  stood 
with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  brown  head.  A 
wind  blew  down  the  stream,  and  the  water  lapped 
at  her  feet.  The  Major  looked  back  into  the 
library,  at  the  door  wherein  Pennington  had 
stood,  and  sighed  with  relief  upon  finding  that 
he  was  gone.  He  looked  back  toward  the  river. 
The  girl  was  walking  along  the  shore,  medita 
tively  swinging  her  hat.  He  stepped  to  the  cor 
ner  of  the  house,  and,  gazing  down  the  road,  saw 
Pennington  on  a  horse,  now  sitting  straight, 
now  bending  low  over  the  horn  of  the  saddle. 
The  old  gentleman  had  a  habit  of  making  a  side 
ward  motion  with  his  hand  as  if  he  would  put  all 
unpleasant  thoughts  behind  him,  and  now  he 
made  the  motion  not  only  once,  but  many  times. 
And  it  seemed  that  his  thoughts  would  not  obey 
him,  for  he  became  more  imperative  in  his  pan 
tomimic  demand. 

At  one  comer  of  the  large  yard,  where  the 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  25 

smooth  ground  broke  off  into  a  steep  slope  to  the 
river,  there  stood  a  small  office  built  of  brick.  It 
was  the  Major's  executive  chamber,  and  thither 
he  directed  his  steps.  Inside  this  place  his  laugh 
was  never  heard;  at  the  door  his  smile  always 
faded.  In  this  commercial  sanctuary  were  en 
forced  the  exactions  that  made  the  plantation 
thrive.  Outside,  in  the  yard,  in  the  "big  house," 
elsewhere  under  the  sky,  a  plea  of  distress  might 
moisten  his  eyes  and  soften  his  heart  to  his  own 
financial  disadvantage,  but  under  the  moss-grown 
shingles  of  the  office  all  was  business,  hard,  un 
compromising.  It  was  told  in  the  neighborhood 
that  once,  in  this  inquisition  of  affairs,  he  de 
manded  the  last  cent  possessed  by  a  widowed 
woman,  but  that,  while  she  was  on  her  way  home, 
he  overtook  her,  graciously  returned  the  money 
and  magnanimously  tore  to  pieces  a  mortgage 
that  he  held  against  her  small  estate. 

Just  as  he  entered  the  office  there  came  across 
the  yard  a  loud  and  impatient  voice.  "Here, 
Bill,  confound  you,  come  and  take  this  horse. 
Don't  you  hear  me,  you  idiot?  You  infernal 
niggers  are  getting  to  be  so  no-account  that  the 
last  one  of  you  ought  to  be  driven  off  the  place. 
Trot,  confound  you.  Here,  take  this  horse  to 
the  stable  and  feed  him.  Where  is  the  Major? 
In  the  office?  The  devil  he  is." 

Toward  the  office  slowly  strode  old  Gideon 
Batts,  fanning  himself  with  his  white  slouch  hat. 


THE  OFFICE. 

He  was  short,  fat,  and  bald ;  he  was  bow- 
legged  with  a  comical  squat;  his  eyes 
stuck    out   like   the    eyes  of  a    swamp 
_-^  "  frog;  his  nose  was  enormous,  shapeless, 
and    red.    To   the    Major's    family    he 
traced   the   dimmest   line   of  kinship.     During 
twenty  years  he  had  operated  a  small  plantation 
that  belonged  to  the  Major,  and  he  was  always 
at  least  six  years  behind  with  his  rent.     He  had 

26 


married  the  widow  Martin,  and  after 
ward  swore  that  he  had  been  disgrace 
fully  deceived  by  her,  that  he  had  ex 
pected  much  but  had  found  her  money 
less;  and  after  this  he  had  but  small 
faith  in  woman.  His  wife  died  and  he 
went  into  contented  mourning,  and  out 
of  gratitude  to  his  satisfied  melan 
choly,  swore  that  he  would  pay  hisj 
rent,  but  failed.  Upon  the  Major  he 
held  a  strong  hold,  and  this  was  a  puz 
zle  to  the  neighbors.  Their  characters  GID' 
stood  at  fantastic  and  whimsical  variance;  one 
never  in  debt,  the  other  never  out  of  debt; 
one  clamped  by  honor,  the  other  feel 
ing  not  its  restraining  pinch.  But  to 
gether  they  would  ride  abroad,  laughing  along 
the  road.  To  Mrs.  Cranceford  old  Gid  was  a 
pest.  With  the  shrewd  digs  of  a  woman,  the 
blood-letting  side  stabs  of  her  sex,  she  had 
often  shown  her  disapproval  of  the  strong  favor 
in  which  the  Major  held  him;  she  vowed  that  her 
husband  had  gathered  many  an  oath  from  Gid's 
swollen  store  of  execration  (when,  in  truth,  Gid 
had  been  an  apt  pupil  under  the  Major),  and  she 
had  hoped  that  the  Major's  attachment  to  the 
church  would  of  necessity  free  him  from  the 
humiliating  association  with  the  old  sinner,  but 
it  did  not,  for  they  continued  to  ride  abroad, 
laughing  along  the  road. 

27 


Lilce  a  skittish  horse  old  Gid  shied 
at  the  office  door.  Once  he  had 
crossed  that  threshold  and  it  had  cost 
him  a  crop  of  cotton. 

''How  are  you,  John?"  was  Gid's 
salutation  as  he  edged  off,  still  fanning 
himself. 

"How  are  you,  sir?"  was  the  Major's 
stiff  recognition  of  the  fact  that  Gid 
was  on  earth. 

"Getting  hotter,  I  believe,  John." 

"I  presume  it  is,  sir."  The  Major 
sat  with  his  elbow  resting  on  a  desk, 
and  about  him  were  stacked  threat 
ening  bundles  of  papers;  and  old  Gid 
knew  that  in  those  commercial  ro 
mances  he  himself  was  a  familiar 
character. 

"Are  you  busy,  John?" 

ID  SHIES  AT  THE  OFFICE  "YeS»   but  >>OU   mW  COme   »«•" 

DOOR.  "No,  I  thank  you.  Don't  believe 

I've  got  time." 

"Then  take  time.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Come  in." 

"Xo,  not  to-day,  John.  Fact  is  I'm  not  feeling 
very  well.  Head's  all  stopped  up  with  a  cold, 
and  these  summer  colds  are  awful,  I  tell  you. 
It  was  a  summer  cold  that  took  my  father  off." 

"How's  your  cotton  in  that  low  strip  along 
the  bayou?" 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  29 

"Tolerable,  John;  tolerable." 

"Come  in.    I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it."     ^ 

"Don't  believe  I  can  stand  the  air  in  there, 
John.  Head  all  stopped  up.  Don't  believe  I'm 
going  to  live  very  long." 

"Nonsense.    You  are  as  strong  as  a  buck." 

"You  may  think  so,  John,  but  I'm  not.  I 
thought  father  was  strong,  too,  but  a  summer 
cold  got  him.  I  am  getting  along  in  years, 
John,  and  I  find  that  I  have  to  take  care  of  my 
self.  But  if  you  really  want  to  talk  to  me  about 
that  piece  of  cotton,  come  out  under  the  trees 
where  it's  cool." 

The  Major  shoved  back  his  papers  and  arose, 
but  hesitated;  and  Gid  stood  looking  on,  fan 
ning  himself.  The  Major  stepped  out  and  Gid's 
face  was  split  asunder  with  a  broad  smile. 

"I  gad.  I've  been  up  town  and  had  a  set-to 
with  old  Baucum  and  the  rest  of  them.  Pulled 
up  fifty  winner  at  poker  and  jumped.  Devilish 
glad  to  see  you;  miss  you  every  minute  of  the 
time  I'm  away.  Let's  go  over  here  and  sit 
down  on  that  bench." 

They  walked  toward  a  bench  under  a  live- 
oak  tree,  and  upon  Gid's  shoulder  the  Major's 
hand  affectionately  rested.  They  halted  to  laugh, 
and  old  Gid  shoved  the  Major  away  from  him, 
then  seized  him  and  drew  him  back.  They  sat 
down,  still  laughing,  but  suddenly  the  Major 
became  serious. 


30 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


"Gid,  I'm  in  trouble,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense,  my  boy,  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
trouble.  Throw  it  off.  Look  at  me.  I've  had 
enough  of  what  the  world  calls  trouble  to  kill  a 
dozen  ordinary  men,  but  just  look  at  me — get 
ting  stronger  every  day.  Thiow  it  off.  What 
is  it  anyway?" 

"Louise  declares  that  she  is  going  to  marry 
Pennington." 

"What!"  old  Gid  exclaimed,  turning  with  a 
bouncing  flounce  and  looking  straight  at  the 
Major.  "Marry  Pennington!  Why,  she  shan't, 
John.  That's  all  there  is  of  it.  We  object  and 
that  settles  it.  Why,  what  the  deuce  can  she  be 
thinking  about?" 

"Thinking  about  him,"  the  Major  answered. 

"Yes,  but  she  must  quit  it.  Why,  it's  out 
rageous  for  as  sensible  a  girl  as  she  is  to  think 
of  marrying  that  fellow.  You  leave  it  to  me; 
hear  what  I  said?  Leave  it  to  me." 

This  suggested  shift  of  responsibility  did  not 
remove  the  shadow  of  sadness  that  had  fallen 
across  the  Major's  countenance. 

"You  leave  it  to  me  and  I'll  give  her  a  talk 
she'll  not  forget.  I'll  make  her  understand  that 
she's  a  queen,  and  a  woman  is  pretty  devilish 
skittish  about  marrying  anybody  when  you  con 
vince  her  that  she's  a  queen.  What  does  your 
wife  say  about  it?" 

"She  hasn't  said  anything.       She's 


THK  PfclEST. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  31 

out  visiting  and  I  haven't  seen  her  since  Lou 
ise  told  me  of  her  determination  to  marry  him." 

"Don't  say  determination,  John.  Say  foolish 
notion.  But  it's  all  right." 

"No,  it's  not  all  right." 

"What,  have  you  failed  to  trust  me?  Is  it 
possible  that  you  have  lost  faith  in  me?  Don't 
do  that,  John,  for  if  you  do  it  will  be  a  never 
failing  source  of  regret.  You  don't  seem  to 
remember  what  my  powers  of  persuasion  have 
accomplished  in  the  past.  When  I  was  in  the 
legislature,  chairman  of  the  Committee  on 
County  and  County  Lines,  what  did  my  protest 
do?  It  kept  them  from  cutting  off  a  ten-foot 
strip  of  this  county  and  adding  it  to  Jefferson. 
You  must  remember  those  things,  John,  for  in 
the  factors  of  persuasion  lie  the  shaping  of 
human  life.  I've  been  riding  in  the  hot  sun 
and  I  think  that  a  mint  julep  would  hit  me  now 
just  about  where  I  live.  Say,  there,  Bill,  bring 
us  some  mint,  sugar  and  whisky.  And  cold 
water  mind  you.  Oh,  everything  will  come  out 
all  right.  By  the  way,  do  you  remember  that 
Catholic  priest  that  came  here  with  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  you?" 

"Yes,  his  name  is  Brennon." 

"Yes,  that's  it.  But  how  did  he  happen  to 
bring  a  letter  to  you?" 

"He  came  from  Maryland  with  a  letter  given 
him  by  a  relative  of  mine." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


"Yes,  and  he  has  gone  to  work,  I  tell  you. 
Do  you  know  what  he's  doing?  Reaching  out 
quietly  and  gathering  the  negroes  into  his 
church.  And  there  are  some  pretty  wise  men 
behind  him.  They  didn't  send  an  Irishman  or 
a  Dutchman  or  an  Italian,  but  an  American 
from  an  old  family.  He's  already  got  three 
negroes  on  my  place,  and  Perdue  tells  me  that 
he's  nipping  one  now  and  then 
over  his  way.  There's  a  scheme 
in  it,  John." 


GID  MIXED  A  MINT  JOLE1'. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  33 

"There  is  a  scheme  in  all  human  affairs  and 
consequently  in  all  church  movements,"  the  Ma 
jor  replied,  and  the  impulse  of  a  disquisition 
straightened  him  into  a  posture  more  dignified, 
for  he  was  fond  of  talking  and  at  times  he 
strove  to  be  logical  and  impressive;  but  at  this 
moment  Bill  arrived  with  mint  from  the  spring; 
and  with  lighter  talk  two  juleps  were 
made. 

"Ah,"  said  old  Gideon,  sipping  his  scented 
drink,  "virtue  may  become  wearisome,  and  we 
may  gape  during  the  most  fervent  prayer,  but 
I  gad,  John,  there  is  always  the  freshness  of 
youth  in  a  mint  julep.  Pour  just  a  few  more 
drops  of  liquor  into  mine,  if  you  please — want 
it  to  rassle  me  a  trifle,  you  know.  Recollect 
those  come-all  ye  songs  we  used  to  sing,  going 
down  the  river?  Remember  the  time  I  snatched 
the  sword  out  of  my  cane  and  lunged  at  a  horse 
trader  from  Tennessee?  Scoundrel  grabbed  it 
and  broke  it  off  and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep 
him  from  establishing  a  close  and  intimate  rela 
tionship  with  me.  Great  old  days,  John;  and  I 
Gad,  they'll  never  come  again." 

"I  remember  it  all,  Gid,  and  it  was  along  there 
that  you  fell  in  love  with  a  woman  that  lived  at 
Mortimer's  Bend." 

"Easy,  now,  John.  A  trifle  more  liquor,  if 
you  please.  Tharik  you.  Yes,  I  used  to  call  her 
the  wild  plum.  Sweet  thing,  and  I  had  no  idea 


34  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

that  she  was  married  until  her  lout  of  a  husband 
came  down  to  the  landing  with  a  double-barrel 
gun.  Ah,  Lord,  if  she  had  been  single  and  worth 
money  I  could  have  made  her  very  happy.  Fate 
hasn't  always  been  my  friend,  John." 

"Possibly  not,  Gid,  but  you  know  that  fate 
to  be  just  should  divide  her  favors,  and  this 
time  she  leaned  toward  the  woman." 

"Slow,  John.    I  Gad,  there's  your  wife." 

A  carriage  drew  up  at  the  yard  gate  and  a 
woman  stepped  out.  She  did  not  go  into  the 
house,  but  seeing  the  Major,  came  toward  him. 
She  was  tall,  with  large  black  eyes  and  very 
gray  hair.  In  her  step  was  suggested  the  pride 
of  an  old  Kentucky  family,  belles,  judges  and 
generals.  She  smiled  at  the  Major  and  bowed 
stiffly  at  old  Gid.  The  two  men  arose.  ' 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  care  to  sit  down,"  she 
said.  "Where  is  Louise?" 

"I  saw  her  down  by  the  river  just  now,"  the 
Major  answered. 

"I  wish  to  see  her  at  once,"  said  his  wife. 

"Shall  I  go  and  call  her,  madam?"  Gid  asked. 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  surprise  and  answered : 
"No,  I  thank  you." 

"No  trouble  I  assure  you,"  Gid  persisted.  "I 
am  pleased  to  say  that  age  has  not  affected  my 
voice,  except  to  mellow  it  with  more  of  reverence 
when  I  address  the  wife  of  a  noble  man  and  the 
mother  of  a  charming  girl." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  85 

She  had  dignity,  but  humor  was  never  lost 
upon  her  and  she  smiled.  This  was  encouraging 
and  old  Gid  proceeded:  "I  was  just  telling  the 
Major  of  my  splendid  prospects  for  a  bountiful 
crop  this  year,  and  I  feel  that  with  this  blessing 
of  Providence  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  meet  all 
my  obligations.  I  saw  our  rector,  Mr.  Mills, 
this  morning,  and  he  spoke  of  how  thankful  I 
ought  to  be — he  had  just  passed  my  bayou  field 
— and  I  told  him  that  I  would  not  only  assert 
my  gratitude  but  would  prove  it  with  a  substan 
tial  donation  to  the  church  at  the  end  of  the 
season." 

In  the  glance  which  she  gave  him  there  was 
refined  and  gentle  contempt;  and  then  she 
looked  down  upon  the  decanter  of  whisky.  Old 
Gideon  drew  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
as  was  his  wont  when  he  strove  to  excite  com 
passion. 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  a  note  of  pity  forced  upon 
his  voice,  "I  am  exceedingly  thankful  for  all  the 
blessings  that  have  come  to  me,  but  I  haven't 
been  very  well  of  late;  rather  feeble  to-day,  and 
the  kind  Major  noticing  it,  insisted  upon  my 
taking  a  little  liquor,  the  medicine  of  our  sturdy 
and  gallant  fathers,  madam." 

The  Major  sprawled  himself  back  with  a  roar 
ing  laugh,  and  hereupon  Gid  added:  "It  takes 
the  Major  a  long  time  to  get  over  a  joke.  Told 
him  one  just  now  and  it  tickled  him  mighty  nigh 


36  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

to  death.  Well,  I  must  be  going  now,  and, 
madam,  if  I  should  chance  to  see  anything  of 
your  charming  daughter,  I  will  tell  her  that  you 
desire  a  conference  with  her.  William,"  he 
called,  "my  horse,  if  you  please." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  37 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mrs.  Cranceford  had  met  Pennington  in  the 
road,  and  on  his  horse,  in  the  shade  of  a  cotton- 
wood  tree,  he  had  leaned  against  the  carriage  win 
dow  to  tell  her  of  his  interview  with  the  Major.  He 
had  desperately  appealed  to  the  sympathy  which 
one  with  so  gentle  a  nature  must  feel  for  a  dying 
man,  and  had  implored  her  to  intercede  with 
her  husband;  but  with  compassionate  firmness 
she  had  told  him  that  no  persuasion  could  move 
her  husband  from  the  only  natural  position  he 
could  take,  and  that  she  herself  was  forced  to 
oppose  the  marriage. 

The  Major,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  was 
now  walking  up  and  down  the  short  stretch  of 
shade.  "I  don't  wonder  that  the  absurdity  of 
it  does  not  strike  him,"  he  said,  "for  he  is  a 
drowning  sentimentalist,  catching  at  a  fantastic 
straw."  He  paused  in  his  walk  to  look  at  his 
wife  as  if  he  expected  to  find  on  her  face  a  com 
mendation  of  this  simile.  She  nodded,  knowing 
what  to  do,  and  the  Major  continued,  resuming 
his  walk:  "I  say  that  I  can't  blame  him  so 
much,  but  Louise  ought  to  have  better  sense. 
I'll  swear  I  don't  know  where  she  gets  her  stub- 


38  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

bornness.  Oh,  but  there  is  no  use  worrying  our 
selves  with  a  discussion  of  it.  You  may  talk  to 
her,  but  I  have  had  my  say." 

Louise,  meanwhile,  was  strolling  along  a 
shaded  lane  that  led  from  the  ferry.  Iron  weeds 
grew  in  the  corners  of  the  fence,  and  in  one  hand 
she  carried  a  bunch  of  purple  blooms;  with  the 
other  hand  she  slowly  swung  her  hat,  holding 
the  strings.  A  flock  of  sheep  came  pattering 
down  the  road.  With  her  hat  she  struck  at  the 
leader,  a  stubborn  dictator  demanding  the  whole 
of  the  highway.  His  flock  scampered  off  in  a 
fright,  leaving  him  doggedly  eyeing  the  disputer 
of  his  progress.  But  now  she  was  frightened, 
with  such  fierceness  did  the  old  ram  lower  his 
head  and  gaze  at  her,  and  she  cried  out,  tcGo 
on  back,  you  good-for-nothing  thing." 

"He  won't  hurt  you,"  a  voice  cried  in  the 
woods,  just  beyond  the  fence.  "Walk  right  up 
to  him." 

An  enormous  young  fellow  came  up  to  the 
fence  and  with  climbing  over  broke  the  top  rail. 
"Don't  you  see  he's  scared?" 

"But  he  would  have  knocked  me  over  if  you 
hadn't  come." 

"No,  he  wouldn't;  he  was  just  trying  to  make 
friends  with  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  such  a  friend." 

Together  they  slowly  walked  along.  With 
tenderness  in  his  eyes  he  looked  down  upon  her, 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  39 

and  when  he  spoke,  which  he  did  from  time  to 
time,  his  voice  was  deep  and  heavy  but  with  a 
mellowness  in  it.  She  addressed  him-  as  Mr. 
Taylor  and  asked  him  if  he  had  been  away.  And 
he  said  that  he  had,  but  that  was  not  a  sufficient 
reason  for  the  formality  of  Mister — his  name  was 
Jim.  She  looked  up  at  him — and  her  eyes  were 
so  blue  that  they  looked  black — and  admitted 
that  his  name  had  been  Jim  but  that  now  it  must 
be  Mr.  Taylor.  She  laughed  at  this  but  his  face 
was  serious. 

"Why,  I  haven't  called  you  Jim  since " 

"Since  I  asked  you  to  marry  me." 

"No,  not  since  then.  And  now  you  know  it 
wouldn't  be  right  to  call  you  Jim." 

In  his  slowness  of  speech  he  floundered  about, 
treading  down  the  briars  that  grew  along  the 
edge  of  the  road,  walking  with  heavy  tread  but 
tenderly  looking  down  upon  her.  "That  ought 
not  to  make  any  difference,"  he  said.  "I  knew 
you  before  you — before  you  knew  anything,  and 
now  it  doesn't  sound  right  to  hear  you  call  me 
anything  but  Jim.  It  is  true  that  the  last  time  I 
saw  you — seems  a  long  time,  but  it  wasn't  more 
than  a  week  ago — you  said  that  you  wouldn't 
marry  me,  and  really  the  time  seems  so  long 
that  I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have  changed 
your  mind." 

"No,  not  yet,"  she  replied. 

"But  you  might." 


40  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"No,  I  couldn't." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"It's  worse;  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to 
change." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  why?" 

"Yes,  I  do.    I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"What!"  He  stopped,  expecting  her  to  obey 
his  own  prompting  and  halt  also,  but  she  walked 
on.  With  long  strides  he  overtook  her,  passed 
her,  stood  in  front  of  her.  She  stepped  aside 
and  passed  on.  But  again  he  overtook  her,  but 
this  time  he  did  not  seek  to  detain  her. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  said,  stripping  the 
leaves  from  the  thorn  bushes  and  briars  that 
came  within  touch  of  his  swinging  hand.  "I 
don't  believe  that  you  would  marry  a  man  unless 
you  loved  him  and  who— who  " 

"Somebody,"  she  said. 

"Please  don't  tantalize  me  in  this  way.  Tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"You  know  Mr.  Pennington " 

"Who,  that  poor  fellow!"  he  cried.  "You  sure 
ly  don't  think  of  marrying  him.  Louise,  don't 
joke  with  me.  Why,  he  can't  live  more  than 
three  months." 

Now  she  halted  and  there  was  anger  in  her 
eyes  as  she  looked  at  him,  and  resentful  rebuke 
was  in  her  voice  when  she  spoke.  "And  you, 
too,  fix  the  length  of  time  he  is  to  live.  Why 
do  you  all  agree  to  give  him  three  months?  Is 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  41 

that  all  the  time  you  are  willing  to  allow  him?" 

He  stepped  back  from  her  and  stood  fumbling 
with  his  great  hands.  "I  didn't  know  that  any 
one  else  had  given  him  three  months,"  he  replied. 
"I  based  my  estimate  merely  on  my  recollection 
of  how  he  looked  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  I  am 
willing  to  allow  him  all  the  time  he  wants  and  far 
more  than  Nature  seems  willing  to  grant." 

"No,  you  are  not.     You  all  want  him  to  die." 

"Don't  say  that,  Louise.  You  know  that  I 
ain't  that  mean.  But  I  acknowledge  that  I  don't 
want  you  to  marry  him." 

"What  need  you  care?  If  I  refuse  to  marry 
you  what  difference  does  it  make  to  you  whom  I 
marry?" 

"It  makes  this  difference — that  I  would  rather 
see  you  the  wife  of  a  man  that  can  take  care  of 
you.  Louise,  they  say  that  I'm  slow  about  every 
thing,  and  I  reckon  I  am,  but  when  a  slow  man 
loves  he  loves  for  all  time." 

"I  don't  believe  it;  don't  believe  that  any  man 
loves  for  all  time." 

"Louise,  to  hear  you  talk  one  might  think  that 
you  have  been  grossly  deceived,  but  I  know  you 
haven't,  and  that  is  what  forces  me  to  say  that  I 
don't  understand  you." 

"You  don't  have  to  understand  me.  Nobody 
has  asked  you  to." 

She  walked  on  and  he  strode  beside  her,  strip 
ping  the  leaves  off  the  shrubs,  looking  down  at 


42  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

her,  worshipping  her;  and  she,  frail  and  whim 
sical,  received  with  unconcern  the  giant's  adora 
tion. 

"I  told  the  Major  that  I  loved  you—" 

"Told  him  before  you  did  me,  didn't  you?"  she 
broke  in,  glancing  up  at  him. 

"No,  but  on  the  same  day.  I  knew  he  was  my 
friend,  and  I  didn't  know  but — " 

"That  he  would  order  me  to  marry  you?" 

"No,  not  that,  but  I  thought  he  might  reason 
with  you." 

"That's  just  like  a  stupid  man.  He  thinks  that 
he  can  win  a  woman  with  reason." 

He  pondered  a  long  time,  seeming  to  feel  that 
this  bit  of  observation  merited  well-considered 
reply,  and  at  last  he  said:  "No,  I  didn't  think 
that  a  woman  could  be  won  by  something  she 
didn't  understand." 

"Oh,  you  didn't.  That  was  brilliant  of  you. 
But  let  us  not  spat  with  each  other,  Jim." 

"I  couldn't  spat  with  you,  Louise;  I  think  too 
much  of  you  for  that,  and  I  want  to  say  right 
now  that  no  matter  if  you  do  marry  I'm  going  to 
keep  on  loving  you  just  the  same.  I  have  loved 
you  so  long  now  that  I  don't  know  how  to  quit. 
People  say  that  I  am  industrious,  and  they  com 
pliment  me  for  keeping  up  my  place  so  well,  and 
for  not  going  to  town  and  loafing  about  of  a 
Sunday  and  at  night,  but  the  truth  is  there  ain't 
a  dog  in  this  county  that's  lazier  than  I  am.  Dur- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  43 

ing  all  these  years  my  mind  has  been  on  you  so 
strong  that  I  have  been  driven  to  work." 

She  had  thrown  down  her  iron  weed  blossoms 
and  had  put  her  hands  to  her  ears  to  shut  out  his 
words  as  if  they  were  a  reproach  to  her,  but  she 
heard  him  and  thus  replied:  "It  appears  that  I 
have  been  of  some  service  at  any  rate." 

"Yes,  but  now  you  are  going  to  undo  it  all." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  were  going  to  keep  on 
loving  me  just  the  same." 

"What!  Do  you  want  me  to?"  There  was 
eagerness  in  his  voice,  and  with  hope  tingling  in 
his  blood  he  remembered  that  a  few  moments  be 
fore  she  had  called  him  Jim.  "Do  you  want 
me  to?" 

"I  want  you  always  to  be  my  friend." 

Under  these  words  he  drooped  and  there  was 
no  eagerness  in  his  voice  when  he  replied: 
"Friendship  between  a  great  big  man  and  a  little 
bit  of  a  woman  is  nonsense.  They  must  love  or 
be  nothing  to  each  other." 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  that  led  past 
the  Major's  house.  She  turned  toward  home. 
"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  halting.  She  stopped 
and  looked  back  at  him.  "Did  you  hear  what  I 
said?" 

"What  about?" 

"Hear  what  I  said  about  a  big  man  and  a  little 
woman  ?" 

"No,  what  did  you  say?" 


44  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

He  fumbled  with  his  hands  and  replied:  "No 
matter  what  I  said  then.  What  I  say  now  is 
good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

She  tripped  along  as  if  she  were  glad  to  be  rid 
of  him,  but  after  a  time  she  walked  slower  as  if 
she  were  deeply  musing.  She  heard  the  brisk 
trotting  of  a  horse,  and,  looking  up,  recognized 
Gideon  Batts,  jogging  toward  her.  He  saw  her. 
and,  halting  in  the  shade,  he  waited  for  her  to 
come  up,  and  as  she  drew  near  he  cried  out, 
"Helloa,  young  rabbit." 

She  wrinkled  her  Greek  nose  at  him,  but  she 
liked  his  banter,  and  with  assumed  offense  she 
replied:  "Frog." 

"None  of  that,  my  lady." 

"Well,  then,  what  made  you  call  me  a  young 
rabbit?" 

"Because  your  ears  stick  out." 

"I  don't  care  if  they  do." 

"Neither  does  a  young  rabbit." 

"I  call  you  a  frog  because  your  eyes  stick  out 
and  because  you  are  so  puffy." 

"Slow,  now,  my  lady,  queen  of  the  sunk  lands. 
Oh,  but  they  are  laying  for  you  at  home  and  you 
are  going  to  catch  it.  I'd  hate  to  be  in  your  fix." 

"And  I  wouldn't  be  in  yours." 

"Easy,  now.  You  allude  to  my  looks,  eh? 
Why,  I  have  broken  more  than  one  heart." 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  had  been  married  but 
once." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  45 

He  winced.  "Look  here,  you  mustn't  talk  that 
way." 

"But  you  began  it.  You  called  me  a  young 
rabbit." 

"That's  right,  and  now  we  will  call  it  off.  What 
a  memory  you've  got.  I  gad,  once  joke  with  a 
woman  and  her  impudence — which  she  mistakes 
for  wit — leaps  over  all  difference  in  ages.  But 
they  are  laying  for  you  at  home  and  you  are  going 
to  catch  it.  I  laughed  at  them;  told  them  it  was 
nonsense  to  suppose  that  the  smartest  girl  in  the 
state  was  going  to  marry — " 

"You've  said  enough.  I  don't  need  your 
championship." 

"But  you've  got  it  and  can't  help  yourself. 
Why,  so  far  as  brains  are  concerned,  the  average 
legislator  can't  hold  a  candle  to  you." 

"That's  no  compliment." 

"Slow.     I  was  in  the  legislature." 

"Yes,  one  term,  I  hear." 

"Why  did  you  hear  one  term?" 

"Because  they  didn't  send  your  back,  I  sup 
pose." 

"Easy.  But  I  tell  you -that  the  Major  and  your 
mother  are  furious.  Your  mother  said — " 

"She  said  very  little  in  your  presence." 

"Careful.  She  said  a  great  deal.  But  I  infer 
from  your  insinuation  that  she  doesn't  think  very 
well  of  me." 

"You  ought  to  know." 


46  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"I  do;  I  know  that  she  is  wrong  in  her  esti 
mate  of  me.  And  I  also  know  that  I  am  right  in 
my  estimate  of  her.  She  is  the  soul  of  gentle 
ness  and  quiet  dignity.  But  you  like  me,  don't 
you?" 

"I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  like  you  in  spite 
of  my  judgment." 

"Easy.  That's  good,  I  must  say.  Ah,  the  in 
fluence  I  have  upon  people  is  somewhat  varied. 
Upon  a  certain  type  of  woman,  the  dignified  lady 
of  a  passing  generation,  I  exercise  no  particular 
influence,  but  I  catch  the  over-bright  young 
women  in  spite  of  themselves.  The  reason 
you  think  so  much  of  me  is  because  you  are  the 
brightest  young  woman  I  ever  saw.  And  this 
puts  me  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  you  are  de 
termined  to  marry  that  fellow  Pennington.  Wait 
a  moment.  I  gad,  if  you  go  I'll  ride  along  with 
you.  Answer  me  one  question:  Is  your  love 
for  him  so  great  that  you'll  die  if  you  don't  marry 
him?  Or  is  it  that  out  of  a  perversity  that  you 
can't  understand  you  are  determined  to  throw 
away  a  life  that  could  be  made  most  useful? 
Louise,  we  have  joked  with  each  other  ever  since 
you  were  a  child.  In  my  waddling  way  I  have 
romped  with  you,  and  I  can  scarcely  realize  that 
you  are  nearly  twenty-four  years  old.  Think  of 
it,  well  advanced  toward  the  age  of  discretion, 
and  yet  you  are  about  to  give  yourself  to  a  dying 
man.  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  47 

"It  seems  not,"  she  replied.  And  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause  she  added:  "If  I  am  so  well  ad 
vanced  toward  the  age  of  discretion  I  should  be 
permitted  to  marry  without  the  advice  of  an  en 
tire  neighborhood." 

She  was  now  standing  in  the  sun,  looking  up  at 
him,  her  half-closed  eyes  glinting  like  blue-tem 
pered  steel. 

"Is  marriage  wholly  a  matter  of  selfishness?" 
she  asked. 

"Slow.  If  you  are  putting  that  to  me  as  a 
direct  question  I  am,  as  a  man  who  never  shies 
at  the  truth,  compelled  to  say  that  it  is.  But  let 
me  ask  you  if  it  is  simply  a  matter  of  accommo 
dation?  If  it  is,  why  not  send  out  a  collection 
of  handsome  girls  to  marry  an  aggregation  of 
cripples?" 

Her  eyes  were  wide  open  now  and  she  was 
laughing.  "No  one  could  be  serious  with  you, 
Mr.  Gid." 

"And  no  one  could  make  you  serious  with 
yourself." 

"Frog." 

"Young  rabbit." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  ears.  "I  would  rather 
be  a  young  rabbit  than  a  frog." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  called  as  she  turned 
away. 

"Well." 

"When  you  go  home  I  wish  you'd  tell  your 


48  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

mother  that  I  talked  to  you  seriously  concerning 
the  foolishness  of  your  contemplated  marriage. 
Will  you  do  that  much  for  your  old  playmate?" 

She  made  a  face  at  him  and  trippingly  has 
tened  away.  He  looked  after  her,  shook  his 
head,  gathered  up  his  bridle  reins,  and  jogged  off 
toward  his  home. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  49 


CHAPTER  V. 

At  home  Louise  made  known  her  arrival  by 
singing  along  the  hallway  that  led  to  her  room. 
She  knew  that  not  a  very  pleasant  reception 
awaited  her,  and  she  was  resolved  to  meet  it  with 
the  appearance  of  careless  gayety.  She  entered 
her  room,  drew  back  the  curtains  to  admit  the 
light,  deftly  touched  her  hair  at  the  mirror,  and 
sat  down  in  a  rocking  chair.  She  took  up  a  book, 
an  American  fad  built  upon  a  London  failure, 
and  was  aimlessly  turning  the  leaves  when  she 
heard  her  mother's  voice. 

"Are  you  in  there,  Louise?" 

"Yes,  come." 

In  the  mother's  appearance  there  was  no  sug 
gestion  of  a  stored  rebuke ;  her  gray  hair,  fault 
lessly  parted,  was  smoothed  upon  her  brow,  her 
countenance  bespoke  calmness,  and  her  sad  eyes 
were  full  of  tender  love. 

"Oh,  you  look  so  cool  and  sweet,"  said  the  girl. 
"Have  this  chair." 

"No,  thank  you,  I  prefer  to  sit  here." 

She  sat  upon  a  straight-back  chair.  In  her 
"day"  only  grandmothers  were  supposed  to  sit 
in  rockers ;  younger  women  were  thought  to  pre- 


50  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

serve  their  health  and  their  grace  of  form  by  sit 
ting  with  rigid  dignity  upon  chairs  which  might 
now  be  exhibited  as  relics  of  household  bar 
barism. 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  visit?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Yes,  very;  but  it  was  so  warm  over  there  un 
der  the  hills  that  I  was  glad  when  the  time  came 
to  leave." 

"Does  that  Englishman  still  live  alone  on  the 
Jasper  place?" 

"Yes,  with  his  straight  pipe  and  Scotch  whisky. 
Perdue  says  that  he  appears  to  be  perfectly  con 
tented  there  all  alone." 

"Have  they  found  out  anything  about  him?" 

"No,  only  what  he  has  been  pleased  to  tell,  and 
that  isn't  much.  It  seems  that  he  is  the  younger 
son  of  a  good  family  strayed  off  from  home  to 
better  his  condition." 

"But  why  should  he  try  to  raise  cotton  when 
they  say  there  is  so  little  money  in  it,  and  es 
pecially  when  it  requires  experience?  And  the 
climate  must  be  trying  on  him?" 

"No,  he  says  that  the  climate  agrees  with  him. 
He  has  lived  in  India.  He  is  reading  American 
history  and  is  much  taken  with  the  part  the  South 
has  borne,  so  I  learned  from  Mr.  Perdue.  He 
did  not  expect  to  find  so  little  prejudice  against 
foreigners.  I  could  have  told  him  that,  in  the 
South,  an  Englishman  is  scarcely  looked  upon  as 
a  foreigner — that  is,  among  the  best  people." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  51 

They  talked  about  many  things  that  concerned 
them  but  little,  of  a  new  steamboat  that  had  just 
entered  upon  the  commerce  of  the  lower  river,  of 
a  cotton  gin  that  was  burned  the  night  before, 
of  the  Catholic  priest  who  had  come  to  gather 
the  negroes  into  his  church;  and  surely  they  were 
far  from  a  mention  of  Pennington.  But  suddenly 
Louise  moved  with  uneasiness,  for  she  had 
caught  something  that  had  not  been  said,  that 
had  not  been  looked,  and,  springing  to  her  feet, 
she  almost  threw  herself  upon  her  mother,  and 
with  her  arms  about  her,  she  cried:  "Please 
don't  say  a  word ;  please  don't.  I  can  argue  with 
father,  but  I  can't  argue  with  you,  for  you  take 
everything  so  to  heart  and  suffer  so  much.  Please 
don't  speak  anybody's  name — don't  say  that 
father  has  said  anything  to  you  about  anybody. 
You  mustn't  cry,  either.  Leave  it  all  to  me,  and 
if  I  was  born  to  wring  your  dear  heart — there,  let 
us  hush." 

She  straightened  up,  putting  the  hair  out 
of  her  eyes,  and  the  silent  and  stately  woman  sat 
there  with  the  tears  rolling  down  her  face. 
"Please  don't,  mother.  You'll  make  me  think 
I'm  the  meanest  creature  in  the  world.  And  I 
don't  know  but  that  I  am,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
Just  call  me  unnatural,  as  you  have  done  so  many 
times,  and  let  it  all  go.  There,  just  listen  at 
father  walking  up  and  down  the  porch;  and  I 
know  he's  mad  at  me." 


52 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


"No,  my  child,  he  is  not  angry;  he  is  hurt." 

"Please  don't  say  that.  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
him.  I  would  rather  make  him  mad  than  to  hurt 
him.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  ails  me,  I  am  so 
restless  and  unhappy.  I  have  tried  every  way 
to  cure  myself,  but  can't — I  have  read  and  read 
until  I  haven't  any  sense,  and  now  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  But  don't  you  tell  me  what  not  to 
do;  don't  say  anything,  but  be  your  own  sweet 
self." 

She  took  up  a  brush  from  the  dresser,  touched 
her  mother's  hair,  and  said:  "Let  me,  please." 
She  loosened  the  thick  coil.  "Beautiful,"  she 
said.  "Don't  you  know  how  I  used  to  tease  you 
to  let  me  comb  it,  a  long  time  ago?  But  it  wasn't 
as  pretty  then  as  it  is  now." 

Through  her  fingers  the  white  hair  streamed, 
glinting  in  the  light  now  sobered  by  the  falling 
of  dusk. 

The  Major's  step  was  heard  at  the  door.  "Come 
in,  father.  See,  I  am  at  my  old  employment." 
And  in  their  faces  and  in  the  hair  streaming 
through  his  daughter's  fingers  the  old  man  read 
that  all  was  well.  He  stood  smiling  at  them. 
Out  in  the  yard  the  fox-hounds  began  to  yelp, 
and  a  galloping  horse  stopped  with  a 
loud,  jolting  "gluck"  at  the  gate.  Then 
came  authoritative  commands,  and  then 
a  jar  as  if  some  one  had  leaped  upon 
the  porch.  There  was  brisk  walking. 


[OTHRB   AND 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  53 

the  opening  and  slamming  of  doors,  and  then  at 
Louise's  door  a  voice  demanded:  "What  are 
you  all  doing  here  in  the  dark?  Ain't  supper 
ready?  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  she  bear." 

The  Major's  son  Tom  had  arrived.  And  just 
at  that  moment,  and  before  any  one  replied  to 
him,  the  supper  bell  began  to  ring.  "Takes  me 
to  bring  things  about,  eh?  You  people  might 
have  waited  here  hungry  for  an  hour.  What  are 
you  doing  here,  anyway?  Lou  brushing  mam's 
hair  and  pap  looking  on  like  a  boy  at  a  show." 

"Thomas,"  said  his  mother,  "I  wish  you 
wouldn't  be  so  rough.  There,  daughter,  that 
will  do.  Just  coil  it.  That's  it;  thank  you.  Major, 
I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  laugh  at  the  brusqueness 
of  your  son ;  you  encourage  him." 

Tom  took  his  mother  by  the  shoulders  and 
turned  her  face  toward  the  door.  He  was  a 
clean-looking,  blondish  fellow,  younger  than  his 
sister — an  athlete,  a  boxer,  with  far  more  rest 
lessness  of  muscle  than  absorption  of  mind.  He 
had  failed  at  Harvard,  where  his  great-grand 
father  had  distinguished  himself;  he  had,  with 
the  influence  of  a  Congressman,  secured  a  West 
Point  cadetship,  and  there  had  fallen  under  the 
rapid  fire  of  a  battery  of  mathematics,  and  had 
come  home  scouting  at  the  humiliation  which  he 
had  put  upon  his  parents,  and  was  now  ready  to 
submit  himself  to  any  other  test  that  might  pre 
sent  itself — was  ready  to  borrow,  to  lend,  or  to 


64 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


fight.  He  picked  negro  tunes  on  a  banjo,  and 
had  been  heard  hoarsely  to  sing  a  love  song 
under  a  cypress  tree.  He  had  now  just  returned 
from  the  capital  of  the  state,  where  he  had  spent 
two  days  watching  the  flank  movements  of  a 
military  drill. 

"You  people  seem  to  be  mighty  solemn,"  was 
Tom's  observation  as  they  sat  down  to  supper, 
glancing  from  one  to  another,  and  finally  direct 
ing  a  questioning  look  at  his  father.  "What's 
the  trouble?  What's  happened?  Is  it  possible 
that  old  Gideon  has  paid  his  rent?" 

Louise  laughed,  a  wrinkle  crept  across  Mrs. 
Cranceford's  brow  and  the  Major  sprawled  back 
with  a  loud  "haw."  Gid's  rent  was  a  standing 
joke;  and  nothing  is  more  sacredly 
entitled  to  instant  recognition  than 
a  joke  that  for  years  has  been  estab 
lished  in  a  Southern  household. 

"I  notice  that  he  never  goes  into 
the  Major's  office,"  Mrs.  Cranceford 
remarked;    and  Tom   quick 
ly  replied:     "And  I    don't 
blame  him   for  that.     I 
went  in  there  about  a 
month      ago      and 
haven't  had  a  dol 
lar  since." 

The    Major 
did  not  laugh 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  55 

at  this.  The  reputed  exaction  of  his  ex 
ecutive  chamber  was  a  sore  spot  to  him. 
"How  you  robbers,  young  and  old,  would  like  to 
fleece  me,"  he  said.  "And  if  I  didn't  turn  to  de 
fensive  stone  once  in  a  while  you'd  pull  out  my 
eye  teeth." 

"Don't  see  how  anybody  could  get  hold  of 
your  eye  teeth,  dad,"  Tom  replied.  "You  are  al 
ways  busy  cutting  them  when  I  come  round. 
Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  added  with  sudden  serious 
ness,  "you  remember  that  fellow  Mayo,  the  one 
that  ran  for  County  Clerk  down  here  some  time 
ago?" 

"The  scoundrel  who  swore  he  was  elected?" 

"That's  the  man.  He  disappeared,  you  know, 
after  his  trouble  down  here,  then  he  went  on 
from  one  community  to  another,  a  Democrat  one 
season  and  a  Republican  the  next,  and  now  he 
has  returned  as  a  labor  leader.  I  met  him  yes 
terday  in  Little  Rock,  and  I  never  have  seen  a 
more  insolent  ruffian.  He  makes  no  secret  of 
his  plans,  and  he  says  that  blood  is  bound  to  flow. 
Tasked  him  if  he  had  any  to  spare,  and  he  cocked 
his  eye  at  me  and  replied  that  he  didn't  know  but 
he  had." 

The  Major  was  silent,  abstractedly  balancing 
his  knife  on  the  rim  of  his  plate.  Mayo,  an  ad 
venturer,  a  scoundrel  with  a  brutish  force  that 
passed  for  frankness,  had  at  one  time  almost 
brought  about  an  uprising  among  the  negroes 


58  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

afford  to  kill  an  amusement  when  one  does  hap 
pen  to  come  along.  Don't  you  worry  about  Gid. 
Why,  Margaret,  he  has  stood  by  me  when  other 
men  turned  their  backs.  The  river  was  danger 
ous  during  my  day,  and  the  pop  of  a  pistol  was 
as  natural  as  the  bark  of  a  dog.  But  old  Gid  was 
there  by  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  that  he  has  some  good 
qualities,"  she  admitted.  "But  why  doesn't  he 
mend  his  ways?" 

"Oh,  he  hasn't  time  for  that,  Margaret.  He's  too 
busy  with  other  matters.  There,  now,  we  won't 
talk  about  him.  But  I  promise  you,  my  dear, 
that  he  shall  not  unduly  influence  me.  I  don't 
exactly  know  what  I  mean  by  that,  either.  I 
mean  that  you  need  have  no  fear  of  my  permit 
ting  him  to  weaken  my  respect  for  the  church. 
Yes,  I  think  that's  about  what  I  mean.  But  the 
fact  is  he  has  never  tried  to  do  that.  But  what's 
the  use  of  this  talk.  I  can  sum  up  the  whole 
situation  by  reminding  you  that  I  am  the  master. 
There,  now,  don't  sigh — don't  look  so  worried." 

"But,  John,  it  grieves  me  to  hear  you  say  that 
you  need  him." 

"Had  to  step  back  to  pick  that  up,  didn't  you? 
Tom,  after  you're  married  you'll  find  that  your 
wife  will  look  with  coldness  or  contempt  upon 
your  most  intimate  friend.  It's  the  absurdest 
jealousy  in  woman's  nature." 

"Thomas,"  said  his  mother,  "you  will  find  noth- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


59 


ing  of  the  sort;  but  I'll  tell  you  what  you  may 
expect  from  the  right  sort  of  a  wife — contempt 
for  a  coarse,  low-bred  fellow,  should  you  insist 
upon  holding  him  as  your  closest  companion." 

"Mother,"  Louise  spoke  up,  "I  think  you  are 
too  severe.  Mr.  Batts  is  hemmed  in  with  faults, 
but  he  has  many  good  points.  And  I  can  under 
stand  why  he  is  necessary  to  father.  I  am  fond 
of  him,  and  I  am  almost  ready  to  declare  that  at 
times  he  is  almost  necessary  to  me.  No,  I  won't 
make  it  as  strong  as  that,  but  I  must  say  that  at 
times  it  is  a  keen  pleasure  to  jower  with  him." 

"To  do  what?"  Mrs.  Cranceford  asked.  "Jower 
with  him?  Where  did  you  get  that  word?" 

"It's  one  of  his,  picked  up  from  among  the 
negroes,  I  think,  and  it  means  more 
than  dispute  or  wrangle.     We  jower 
at  times — quarrel  a  little  more  than 
half  in  earnest." 

"Well,"  said  the  mother,  "perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  say  anything,  but  I 
can't  help  it  when  I  am  so  often  hurt 
by  that  man's  influence.  Why,  last 
Sunday  afternoon  your  father  left  the 
rector  sitting  here  and  went  away 
with  that  old  sinner,  and  we  heard 
them  haw-hawing  over  in  the  woods. 
But  I  won't  say  any  more." 

"You  never  do,  Margaret,"  the  Ma 
jor  replied,  winking  at  Louise.  "But 


THE  MAJOR  HUNG  HIS 
WATCH  ON  A  NAIL, 


68  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

afford  to  kill  an  amusement  when  one  does  hap 
pen  to  come  along.  Don't  you  worry  about  Gid. 
Why,  Margaret,  he  has  stood  by  me  when  other 
men  turned  their  backs.  The  river  was  danger 
ous  during  my  day,  and  the  pop  of  a  pistol  was 
as  natural  as  the  bark  of  a  dog.  But  old  Gid  was 
there  by  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  that  he  has  some  good 
qualities,"  she  admitted.  "But  why  doesn't  he 
mend  his  ways?" 

"Oh,  he  hasn't  time  for  that,  Margaret.  He's  too 
busy  with  other  matters.  There,  now,  we  won't 
talk  about  him.  But  I  promise  you,  my  dear, 
that  he  shall  not  unduly  influence  me.  I  don't 
exactly  know  what  I  mean  by  that,  either.  I 
mean  that  you  need  have  no  fear  of  my  permit 
ting  him  to  weaken  my  respect  for  the  church. 
Yes,  I  think  that's  about  what  I  mean.  But  the 
fact  is  he  has  never  tried  to  do  that.  But  what's 
the  use  of  this  talk.  I  can  sum  up  the  whole 
situation  by  reminding  you  that  I  am  the  master. 
There,  now,  don't  sigh — don't  look  so  worried." 

"But,  John,  it  grieves  me  to  hear  you  say  that 
you  need  him." 

"Had  to  step  back  to  pick  that  up,  didn't  you? 
Tom,  after  you're  married  you'll  find  that  your 
wife  will  look  with  coldness  or  contempt  upon 
your  most  intimate  friend.  It's  the  absurdest 
jealousy  in  woman's  nature." 

"Thomas,"  said  his  mother,  "you  will  find  noth- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


59 


ing  of  the  sort;  but  I'll  tell  you  what  you  may 
expect  from  the  right  sort  of  a  wife — contempt 
for  a  coarse,  low-bred  fellow,  should  you  insist 
upon  holding  him  as  your  closest  companion." 

"Mother,"  Louise  spoke  up,  "I  think  you  are 
too  severe.  Mr.  Batts  is  hemmed  in  with  faults, 
but  he  has  many  good  points.  And  I  can  under 
stand  why  he  is  necessary  to  father.  I  am  fond 
of  him,  and  I  am  almost  ready  to  declare  that  at 
times  he  is  almost  necessary  to  me.  No,  I  won't 
make  it  as  strong  as  that,  but  I  must  say  that  at 
times  it  is  a  keen  pleasure  to  jower  with  him." 

"To  do  what?"  Mrs.  Cranceford  asked.  "Jower 
with  him?  Where  did  you  get  that  word?" 

"It's  one  of  his,  picked  up  from  among  the 
negroes,  I  think,  and  it  means  more 
than  dispute  or  wrangle.    We  jower 
at  times — quarrel  a  little  more  than 
half  in  earnest." 

"Well,"  said  the  mother,  "perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  say  anything,  but  I 
can't  help  it  when  I  am  so  often  hurt 
by  that  man's  influence.  Why,  last 
Sunday  afternoon  your  father  left  the 
rector  sitting  here  and  went  away 
with  that  old  sinner,  and  we  heard 
them  haw-hawing  over  in  the  woods. 
But  I  won't  say  any  more." 

"You  never  do,  Margaret,"  the  Ma 
jor  replied,  winking  at  Louise.  "But 


THE  MAJOR  HUNQ  HIS 
WATCH  ON  A  NA1U 


00  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

let  us  drop  him.  So  you  saw  Mayo,  eh?"  he 
added,  turning  to  Tom. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  I  understand  that  he  is  coming 
back  down  here  to  prove  to  the  negroes  that  we 
are  cheating  them  out  of  their  earnings." 

The  Major  tossed  a  cigar  to  Tom,  lighted  one, 
and  had  begun  to  talk  with  a  rhetorical  and  sen 
tentious  balancing  of  periods — which,  to  his 
mind,  full  of  the  oratory  of  Prentiss,  was  the  es 
sence  of  impressiveness — when  a  negro  woman 
entered  the  room.  And  hereupon  he  changed 
the  subject. 

When  bedtime  came  the  old  gentleman  stood 
on  a  rug  in  front  of  a  large  fire-place,  medita 
tively  winding  his  watch.  His  wife  sat  on  a 
straight-back  chair,  glancing  over  the  harmless 
advertisements  in  a  religious  newspaper.  In  the 
parlor  they  had  spent  an  agreeable  evening,  with 
music  and  with  never  an  allusion  to  an  unpleasant 
subject,  but  there  was  something  finer  than  an 
allusion,  and  it  had  passed  from  husband  to  wife 
and  back  again — a  look  at  each  other  and  a 
glance  toward  Louise.  But  they  had  laughed  at 
the  girl's  imitation  of  a  cakewalk,  and  yet  in  the 
minds  of  the  father  and  the  mother  was  the  low 
echo  of  a  hollow  cough.  Affectionately  she  had 
kissed  them  good  night,  and  had  started  off  down 
the  hall  in  mimicry  of  a  negro  belle's  walk,  but 
they  had  heard  her  door  shut  with  a  quick  slam 
as  if  she  were  at  last  impelled  to  be  truthful  with 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  61 

herself,  to  close  herself  in  with  her  own  medita 
tions. 

The  Major  hung  his  watch  on  a  nail  above  the 
mantel-piece.  From  a  far-off  nook  of  the  sprawl 
ing  old  house  came  the  pling-plang  of  the  boy's 
banjo. 

"Margaret?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

She  began  to  fold  the  newspaper.  "I  didn't 
say  anything.  She  wouldn't  permit  me." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"That  she  will  do  as  she  pleases." 

"Consoling,  by  the — consoling,  I  must  say. 
But  I  tell  you  she  won't.  I  will  shame  her  out 
of  it." 


62  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  top  of  the  cotton  stalk  glimmered  with  a 
purple  bloom,  but  down  between  the  rows, 
among  the  dying  leaves,  the  first  bolls  were  open 
ing.  The  air  was  still  hot,  for  at  noontime  the  glare 
in  the  sandy  road  was  fierce,  but  the  evening  was 
cool,  and  from  out  in  the  gleaming  dew  came  a 
sweetly,  lonesome  chirrup,  an  alarm  in  the  grass, 
the  picket  of  the  insect  army,  crying  the  approach 
of  frost.  In  the  atmosphere  was  felt  the  influ 
ence  of  a  reviving  activity;  new  cotton  pens 
were  built  along  the  borders  of  the  fields,  and  the 
sounds  of  hammer  and  saw  were  heard  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  gin-house.  With  the  dusk 
of  Saturday  evening  "new"  negroes  came.  In 
the  city  they  had  idled  the  summer  away,  gam 
bling,  and  had  now  come  with  nimble  fingers  to 
pick  cotton  during  the  day  and  with  tricky  hands 
to  throw  dice  at  night.  Gaunt,  long-legged  birds 
flew  from  the  North  and  awkwardly  capered  on 
f'i  sand-bar.  Afar  off  there  appeared  to  hover 
over  the  landscape  a  pall  of  thin,  pale  smoke; 
but,  like  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  it  stole  back 
from  closer  view,  was  always  afar  off,  lying  low 
to  the  earth.  The  autumn  rains  had  not  yet  set 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  63 

in,  and  the  water  in  the  bayou  was  low  and  yellow. 
The  summer  grapes  were  ripe,  and  in  the  cool, 
shaded  coves  at  the  base  of  the  hills  the  musca 
dine  was  growing  purple.  The  mules,  so  over 
worked  during  plow-time,  now  stumbled  down 
the  lane,  biting  at  one  another.  The  stiffening 
wind,  fore-whistle  of  the  season's  change  of  tune, 
was  shrill  amid  the  rushes  at  the  edge  of  the 
swamp. 

It  was  a  time  to  work,  but  also  to  muse  and 
dream  while  working.  In  the  air  was  something 
that  invited,  almost  demanded  reverie.  Upon 
the  fields  there  might  lie  many  a  mortgage,  but 
who  at  such  a  time  could  worry  over  the  harsh 
exactions  of  debt? 

Nearly  three  weeks  had  passed,  and  not  again 
in  the  Major's  household  had  Pennington's  name 
been  mentioned.  But  once,  alone  with  his  wife, 
the  Major  was  leading  up  to  it  when  she  held  up 
her  hands  and  besought  him  to  stop.  "I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  it,"  she  said.  "It  stuns  and  stupe 
fies  me.  But  it  is  of  no  use  to  say  anything  to 
her.  She  is  of  age  and  she  is  head-strong." 

There  was  a  dry  rasp  in  the  Major's  throat. 
"Don't  you  think  that  to  say  she  is  a  crank  would 
be  hitting  nearer  the  mark?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  his  wife  answered.  "She  is  not 
a  crank.  She  is  a  remarkably  bright  woman." 

"Yes,  she  shows  it.  When  a  man  does  a  fool 
thing  he  is  weak,  off,  as  they  say;  but  when  a 


64  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

woman  jumps  out  of  the  enclosure  of  common 
sense  we  must  say  that  she  is  bright." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  shame  her  out 
of  it?" 

"I  will,  but  she  hasn't  given  me  a  chance.  But 
we'll  let  it  go.  I  believe  she  has  repented  of  her 
folly  and  is  too  much  humiliated  to  make  a  con 
fession." 

His  wife  smiled  sadly.  "Don't  you  think  so?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Well,  I  must  say  that  you  are  very  calm  over 
the  situation." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  was  stunned  and  stu 
pefied  by  it?" 

"Yes,  that's-  all  right,  and  there's  no  use  in 
worrying  with  it  Common  sense  says  that  when 
you  can't  help  a  thing  the  best  plan  is  to  let  it  go 
until  a  new  phase  is  presented." 

And  so  they  ceased  to  discuss  the  subject,  but 
like  a  heavy  weight  it  lay  upon  them,  and  under 
it  they  may  have  sighed  their  worry,  but  they 
spoke  it  not.  From  Tom  this  sentimental  flurry 
had  remained  securely  hidden.  Sometimes  the 
grave  tone  of  his  father's  words,  overheard  at 
night,  and  his  mother's  distressful  air,  during  the 
day,  struck  him  with  a  vague  apprehension,  but 
his  mind  was  not  keen  enough  to  cut  into  the 
cause  of  what  he  might  have  supposed  to  be  a 
trouble;  and  so,  he  gave  it  none  of  his  time,  so 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  65 

taken  up  with  his  banjo,  his  dogs,  his  sporting 
newspaper,  and  his  own  sly  love  affair.  In 
Louise's  manner  no  change  was  observed. 

One  afternoon  the  Major,  old  Gid,  and  an 
Englishman  named  Anthony  Low  were  sitting 
on  the  porch  overlooking  the  river  when  the 
Catholic  priest  from  Maryland,  Father  Brennon, 
stopped  to  get  a  drink  of  water.  And  he  was 
slowly  making  his  way  across  the  yard  to  the 
well  when  the  Major  called  him,  urging  him  to 
come  upon  the  porch  and  rest  himself.  "Wait," 
the  Major  added,  "and  I'll  have  some  water 
drawn  for  you." 

"I  thank  you,"  the  priest  replied,  bowing,  "but 
I  prefer  to  draw  it."  When  he  had  drunk 
out  of  the  bucket,  he  took  a  seat  on  the  porch. 
He  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  grave,  and  sturdy. 
His  eyes  were  thoughtful  and  his  smile  was  be 
nevolent  ;  his  brow  was  high  and  broad,  his  nose 
large  and  strong,  and  a  determined  conviction 
seemed  to  have  molded  the  shape  of  his  mouth. 
His  speech  was  slow,  resonant,  dignified;  his  ac 
cent  of  common  words  was  Southern,  but  in 
some  of  his  phrases  was  a  slight  burr,  the  sub 
dued  echo  of  a  foreign  tongue. 

The  Englishman  was  a  stocky  young  fellow, 
with  light  hair  and  reddish  side  whiskers,  a  man 
of  the  world,  doggedly  careful  in  his  use  of  super 
latives,  but  with  a  habit  of  saying,  "most  extraor 
dinary."  He  had  rented  an  old  plantation  and 
ft 


66 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


lived  alone  in  a  dilapidated  log  house,  with  his 
briar  pipe,  Scotch  whisky,  sole  leather  hatbox, 
and  tin  bathtub.  He  had  thought  that  it  would 
be  a  sort  of  lark  to  grow  a  crop  of  cotton,  and 
had  hired  three  sets  of  negroes,  discharging  them 
in  turn  upon  finding  that  they  laughed  at  his 
ways  and  took  advantage  of  his  inexperience. 
He  had  made  his  first  appearance  by  calling  one 
morning  at  the  Major's  house  and  asking  to  be 
shown  about  the  place.  The  Major  gladly  con 
sented  to  do  this,  and  together  they  set  out  on 
horseback. 

The  planter  knew  much  of  English  hos 
pitality,  gathered  from  old  romances,  and 
now  was  come  the  time  to  show  a  Britain 
what  an  American  gentleman  could  do. 
They  rode  down  a  lane,  crossed  a  small 
field,  and  halted  under  a  tree;  and  there  was 
a  negro  with  whisky,  mint  and 
sugar.  They  crossed  a  bayou, 
passed  the  "quarters,"  turned 
into  the  woods;  and  there  was 
another  ne 
gro  with 
whisky,mint 
and  sugar. 
They  rode 
across  a 
large  fi  e  1  d, 
and  went 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


67 


through  a  gate,  came  to  a  spring;  and  there 
waiting  for  them  was  a  negro  with  liquor  for 
a  julep.  They  turned  into  the  "big"  road,  trotted 
along  until  they  came  to  another  spring,  at  least 
three  miles  from  the  starting  point;  and  there 
was  a  negro  with  whisky,  sugar  and  mint.  But 
the  Englishman's  only  comment  was,  "Ah,  most 
extraordinary,  how  that  fellow  can  keep  ahead 
of  us,  you  know." 

Several  months  had  elapsed,  and  the  Major 
had  called  on  Mr.  Low,  had  shouted  at  the  yard 
gate,  had  supposed  that  no  one  was  at  home,  had 
stalked  into  the  wide  open  house  and  there  had 
found  the  Englishman  sitting  in  his  bath-tub, 
reading  Huxley.  And  to-day  Mr.  Low 
had  come  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of 
that  visit. 

"You  are  on  the  verge  of  your  busy 
season,"  said  the  priest. 

"Yes,"  the  Major  replied,  "we  begin 
picking  to-morrow." 

"A  beautiful  view  across  the  whiten 
ing  fields,"  said  the  priest. 

"You  ought  to  see  my  bayou  field," 
old  Gid  spoke  up.  "It  would  make  you 
open  your  eyes — best  in  the  state. 
Don't  you  think  so,  John?" 

"Well,"  the  Major  answered,  "it  is  as 
good  as  any,  I  suppose." 

"I  tell  you  it's  the  best,"  Gid  insisted. 


WITH  WHISKY,  MINT  AND 
SUGAR. 


68  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"And  as  a  man  of  varied  experience  I  ought  to 
know  what  best  is.  Know  all  about  cotton.  I 
gad,  I  can  look  at  a  boll  and  make  it  open." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  Englishman,  "have  you  had 
any  trouble  with  your  labor?" 

"With  the  negroes?"  Gid  asked.  "Oh,  no; 
they  know  what  they've  got  to  do  and  they  do  it. 
But  let  a  cog  slip  and  you  can  have  all  the  trouble 
you  want.  I  gad,  you  can't  temporize  with  a 
negro.  He's  either  your  servant  or  your  boss." 

"All  the  trouble  you  want,"  said  the  English 
man.  "By  Jove,  I  don't  want  any.  Your  servant 
or  your  master.  Quite  remarkable." 

"Don't  know  how  remarkable  it  is,  but  it's  a 
fact  all  the  same,"  Gid  replied.  "You've  had 
trouble,  I  understand." 

"Yes,  quite  a  bit.  I've  had  to  drive  them  off 
a  time  or  two ;  the  rascals  laughed  at  me.  Quite 
full  of  fun  they  were,  I  assure  you.  I  had 
thought  that  they  were  a  solemn  race.  They  are 
everywhere  else  except  in  America." 

"It  is  singular,"  the  Major  spoke  up,  "but  it  is 
nevertheless  true  that  the  American  negro  is  the 
only  species  of  the  African  race  that  has  a  sense 
of  humor.  There's  no  humor  in  the  Spanish 
negro,  nor  in  the  English  negro,  nor  in  fact  in 
the  American  negro  born  north  of  the  Ohio 
river,  but  the  Southern  negro  is  as  full  of  droll 
ery  as  a  black  bear." 

"Ah,  yes,  a  little  too  full  of  it,  I  fancy,"  Mr. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  69 

Low  replied.  "I  threatened  them  with  the  law, 
but  they  laughed  the  more  and  were  really  worse 
in  every  respect  after  that." 

"With  the  law!"  old  Gid  snorted.  "What  the 
deuce  do  they  care  about  the  law,  and  what  sort 
of  law  do  you  reckon  could  keep  a  man  from 
laughing?  You  ought  to  threatened  them  with  a 
snake  bone  or  a  rabbit's  foot." 

"I  beg  pardon.  A  snake  bone  or  a  rabbit's 
foot,  did  you  say?  I  really  don't  understand." 

"Yes,  threaten  to  conjure  them.  That  might 
have  fetched  them." 

"Ah,  I  see.  Quite  extraordinary,  I  assure 
you." 

The  priest  began  to  talk,  and  with  profound 
attention  they  turned  to  him.  He  sat  there  with 
the  mystery  of  the  medieval  ages  about  him, 
with  a  great  and  silent  authority  behind  him. 

"Have  you  gentlemen  ever  considered  the  re 
ligious  condition  of  the  negro?  Have  you  not 
made  his  religion  a  joke?  Is  it  not  a  popular 
belief  that  he  will  shout  at  his  mourners'  bench 
until  midnight  and  steal  a  chicken  before  the 
dawn?  He  has  been  taught  that  religion  is 
purely  an  emotion  and  not  a  matter  of  duty.  He 
does  not  know  that  it  means  a  life  of  inward 
humanity  and  outward  obedience.  I  have  come  to 
teach  him  this,  to  save  him ;  for  in  our  church  lies 
his  only  salvation,  not  alone  of  his  soul,  but  of 
his  body  and  of  his  rights  as  well  as  of  his  soul. 


70  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

I  speak  boldly,  for  I  am  an  American,  the  de 
scendant  of  American  patriots.  And  I  tell  you 
that  the  Methodist  negro  and  the  Baptist  negro 
and  the  Presbyterian  negro  are  mere  local 
issues;  but  the  Catholic  negro  is  international — 
he  belongs  to  the  great  nervous  system  of  Rome ; 
and  whenever  Rome  reaches  out  and  draws  him 
in,  he  is  that  moment  removed  as  a  turbulent 
element  from  politics.  Although  slavery  was 
long  ago  abolished,  there  existed  and  to  some 
small  extent  still  exists  a  bond  between  the 
white  man  and  the  black  man  of  the  South — a 
sort  of  family  tie;  but  this  tie  is  straining  and 
will  soon  be  broken;  a  new  generation  is  com 
ing,  and  the  negro  and  the  white  man  will  be  two 
antagonistic  forces,  holding  in  common  no 
sunny  past — one  remembering  that  his  father 
was  a  master,  the  other  that  his  father  was  a 
slave.  When  that  time  comes,  and  it  is  almost 
at  hand,  there  will  be  a  serious  trouble  growing 
out  of  a  second  readjustment.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
race  cannot  live  on  a  perfect  equality  with  any 
other  race;  it  must  rule;  it  demands  complete 
obedience.  And  the  negro  will  resent  this  de 
mand,  more  and  more  as  the  old  family  ties  are 
weakened.  He  has  seen  that  his  support  at 
the  North  was  merely  a  political  sentiment,  and 
must  know  that  it  will  not  sustain  him  in  his 
efforts  against  capital,  for  capital,  in  the  eye  of 
capital,  is  always  just,  and  labor,  while  unfor- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  71 

tunate,  is  always  wrong.  And  when  the  negro 
realizes  this,  remembering  all  his  other  wrongs, 
he  will  become  desperate.  That  is  the  situation. 
But  is  there  no  way  to  avert  this  coming  strife? 
I  am  here  to  say  that  there  is.  As  communi 
cants  of  the  Catholic  Church  the  negroes  will  not 
listen  to  the  labor  agitator.  He  will  listen  to 
the  church,  which  will  advise  peace  and  submis 
sion  to  proper  authority." 

The  priest  had  not  gone  far  into  his  dis 
course  before  the  Major  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  porch  in  front  of  him,  nodding  at  him 
each  time  as  he  passed.  And  when  the  clergy 
man  ceased  to  speak,  the  Major,  halting  and 
facing  him,  thus  replied:  "There  may  be  some 
truth,  sir,  in  what  you  have  said — there  is  some 
little  truth  in  the  wildest  of  speculation — but  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  why  is  not  a  Protestant 
negro  in  a  Protestant  country  as  safe  as  a  Catho 
lic  negro  in  a  Protestant  country?  You  tell 
me  that  your  religion  will  protect  the  negro, 
and  I  ask  you  why  it  does  not  protect  the 
laborer  in  the  North?  You  say  that  the  Protest 
ant  negro  in  the  South  is  a  local  issue,  and  I  ask 
you  why  is  not  a  Catholic  laborer  in  the  North 
an  international  issue?  If  the  negro  of  the 
South,  yielding  to  your  persuasion,  is  to  become 
a  part  of  the  great  nervous  system  of  Rome,  why 
are  not  Catholic  laborers  everywhere  a  part  of 
that  system?  I  think,  sir,  that  you  have  shrewd- 


72  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

ly  introduced  a  special  plea.  Your  church,  with 
its  business  eyes  always  wide  open,  sees  a  chance 
to  make  converts  and  is  taking  advantage  of  it. 
And  I  will  not  say  that  I  will  oppose  your  cause. 
If  the  negro  thinks  that  your  church  is  better 
for  him  than  the  Protestant  churches  have 
proved  themselves  to  be,  why  I  say  let  him  be 
taken  in.  I  admit  that  we  are  not  greatly  con 
cerned  over  the  negro's  religion.  We  are  satis 
fied  with  the  fact  that  he  has  his  churches  and 
that  he  has  always  been  amply  provided  with 
preachers  agreeing  with  him  in  creed  and  color 
of  skin.  I  will  concede  that  his  professions 
of  faith  are  regarded  more  or  less  in  the  light  of 
a  joke.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing — that 
the  negro's  best  friends  live  here  in  the  South. 
From  us  he  knows  exactly  what  to  expect.  He 
knows  that  he  cannot  rule  us — knows  that  he 
must  work  for  a  living.  The  lands  belong  to  the 
white  man  and  the  white  man  pays  the  taxes, 
and  the  white  man  would  be  a  fool  to  permit  the 
negro  to  manage  his  affairs.  Men  who  dig  in 
the  coal  mines  of  Pennsylvania  don't  manage 
the  affairs  of  the  company  that  owns  the  mines. 
I  cannot  question  the  correctness  of  one  of  your 
views — that  the  old  tie  is  straining  and  may  soon 
be  broken.  The  old  negroes  still  regard  us  with 
a  sort  of  veneration,  but  if  the  young  ones  show 
respect  it  is  out  of  fear.  Into  this  county  a  large 
number  of  negroes  have  lately  come  from  Mis- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  73 

sissippi  and  South  Carolina.  They  have  been 
brought  up  on  large  plantations  and  have  but  a 
limited  acquaintance  with  the  white  man.  In* 
stinctively  they  hate  him.  And  these  newcomers 
will  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  agitator  and  by 
their  example  will  lead  their  brethren  into  trou 
ble.  You  are  right  when  you  say  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race  must  rule.  It  will  rule  a  community 
as  it  must  eventually  rule  the  civilized  world. 
But  I  don't  see  how  your  church  is  to  be  the 
temporal  as  well  as  the  spiritual  salvation  of 
the  negro." 

The  Major  sat  down;  the  priest  smiled  grave 
ly,  showing  the  shape  into  which  conviction  and 
determination  had  molded  his  mouth.  "My 
church  is  not  at  all  times  able  to  prevent  labor 
troubles  in  the  North,"  said  he,  "but  it  has  often 
prevented  the  shedding  of  blood." 

"Ah,"  the  Major  broke  in,  "that  may  be  true; 
and  so  has  the  influence  of  the  other  churches. 
But  what  I  want  to  know  is  this:  How  can  you 
protect  a  negro  here  more  than  you  protect  an 
Italian  in  the  North?" 

"My  dear  sir,  the  Italian  in  the  North  is  pro 
tected." 

"I  grant  you,  but  by  the  law  rather  than  by  the 
church." 

"But  is  not  the  church  behind  the  law?"  There 
was  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  the  priest's  eyes,  and  he 
was  about  to  proceed  with  his  talk  when  old  Gid 


74  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

snorted:  "I  gad,  I  hear  that  the  public  schools 
of  the  North  are  in  the  hands  of  the  Catholics, 
and  if  that's  the  case  I  reckon  they've  got  a 
pretty  good  hold  on  the  court  house.  I  under 
stand  that  they  daresn't  open  a  Bible  in  the  pub 
lic  schools  of  Chicago;  and  they  also  tell  me 
that  the  children  there  have  to  learn  Dutch. 
Zounds,  ain't  that  enough  to  make  old  Andy 
Jackson  rattle  his  bones  in  his  grave?  I  wish  I 
had  my  way  for  a  few  weeks.  I'd  show  the 
world  that  this  is  America.  I'd  catch  low 
browed  wretches  carrying  all  sorts  of  spotted 
and  grid-ironed  flags  through  the  streets.  Dutch! 
Now,  I'd  just  like  to  hear  a  child  of  mine  gab 
bling  Dutch." 

The  priest  addressed  himself  to  the  Major. 
"You  ask  how  we  are  to  protect  the  negro  in 
the  South.  I  will  tell  you — by  teaching  him  that 
except  in  the  Catholic  Church  he  cannot  hope 
to  find  perfect  equality.  Our  communion  knows 
no  color — save  red,  and  that  is  the  blood  of 
Christ.  Our  religion  is  the  only  true  democ 
racy,  but  a  democracy  which  teaches  that  a  man 
must  respect  himself  before  he  should  expect 
others  to  respect  him.  But,  my  dear  Major,  I 
am  not  here  to  convince  you,  but  to  convince  the 
negro.  He  has  been  buffeted  about  by  political 
parties,  and  now  it  remains  for  the  church  to 
save  him.  One  of  these  days  an  act  rather  than 
a  word  may  convince  you." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


75 


Tom  had  come  out  upon  the  porch.  For  a 
time  he  stood,  listening,  then  quickly  stepping 
down  into  the  yard,  he  gazed  toward  the  dairy 
house,  into  which,  accompanied  by  a  negro 
woman,  had  gone  a  slim  girl,  wearing  a  ging 
ham  sun-bonnet.  The  girl  came  out,  carrying  a 
jug,  and  hastened  toward  the  yard  gate.  Tom 
heard  the  gate-latch  click  and  then  stepped 
quickly  to  the  corner  of  the  house;  and  when 
out  of  sight  he  almost  ran  to  overtake  the  girl. 
She  had  reached  the  road,  and  she  pretended  to 
walk  faster  when  she  heard  his  footsteps.  She 
did  not  raise  her  eyes  as  he  came  up  beside  her. 

"Let  me  carry  the  jug,  Sallie." 

"No,  I  can  carry  it." 

"Give  it  to  me." 

He  took  the  jug  and  she  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  smile. 

"How's  your  uncle,  Sallie?" 

"He  ain't  any  better." 

Her  uncle  was  Wash  Sanders.  Twenty  years 
had  passed  since  he  had  first  issued  a  bulletin 
that  he  was  dying.  He  had  liver  trouble  and 
a  strong  combination  of  other  ailments,  but 
he  kept  on  living.  At  first  the  neighbors  had 
confidence  in  him,  and  believed  that  he  was  about 
to  pass  away,  but  as  the  weeks  were 
stretched  into  years,  as  men  who  had  -HA 
been  strong  and  hearty  were  one  by  /; 
one  borne  to  the  grave,  they  began  to 


••LET  ME  CARRY  THE  JOG, 
SALLIE." 


76  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

lose  faith  in  Wash  Sanders.  All  day  long  he 
would  sit  on  his  shaky  verandah,  built  high  off 
the  ground,  and  in  answer  to  questions  concern 
ing  his  health  would  answer:  "Can't  keep  up 
much  longer;  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night. 
Don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  chicken  alive."  His 
eows  appeared  always  to  be  dry,  and  every  day 
he  would  send  his  niece,  Sallie  Pruitt,  for  a  jug 
of  buttermilk.  He  had  but  one  industry,  the 
tending  and  scraping  of  a  long  nail  on  the  little 
finger  of  his  left  hand.  He  had  a  wife,  but  no 
children.  His  niece  had  recently  come  from 
the  pine  woods  of  Georgia.  Her  hair  looked 
like  hackled  flax  and  her  eyes  were  large  and 
gray. 

"I  didn't  think  you  could  see  me,"  said  the 
girl,  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  swinging  it  as 
she  walked,  keeping  a  sort  of  time  with  it. 

"Why,  you  couldn't  possibly  come  and  get 
away  without  my  seeing  you." 

"Yes,  I  could  if  it  was  night." 

"Not  much.  I  could  see  you  in  the  dark,  you 
are  so  bright." 

"I'm  not  anything  of  the  sort.  Give  me  the 
jug  and  let  me  go  on  by  myself  if  you  are  goin' 
to  make  fun  of  me." 

She  reached  for  the  jug  and  he  caught  her 
hand,  and  walking  along,  held  it. 

"I  wouldn't  want  to  hold  anybody's  hand  that 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  77 

I'd  made  fun  of,"  she  said,  striving,  though 
gently,  to  pull  it  away. 

"I  didn't  make  fun  of  you.  I  said  you  were 
bright  and  you  are.  To  me  you  are  the  bright 
est  thing  in  the  world.  Whenever  I  dream  of 
you  I  awake  with  my  eyes  dazzled." 

"Oh,  you  don't,  no  such  of  a  thing." 

They  saw  a  wagon  coming,  and  he  dropped 
her  hand.  He  stepped  to  the  right,  she  to  the 
left,  and  the  wagon  passed  between  them.  She 
looked  at  him  in  alarm.  "That's  bad  luck,"  she 
said." 

"What  is?" 

"To  let  anything  pass  between  us." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference." 

"Yes,  it  does,"  she  insisted.  "No,  you  musn't 
take  my  hand  again — you've  let  something  pass 
between  us." 

He  awkwardly  grabbed  after  her  hand.  She 
held  it  behind  her,  and  about  her  waist  he 
pressed  his  arm.  "Oh,  don't  do  that.  Somebody 
might  see  us." 

"I  don't  care  if  the  whole  world  sees  us." 

"You  say  that  now,  but  after  awhile  you'll 
care." 

"Never  as  long  as  I  live.  You  know  I  love 
you." 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Yes,  you, do." 

"You  might  say  you  do,  but  you  don't.    But 


78  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

even  if  you  do  love  me  now  you  won't  always." 

"Yes,  as  long  as  I  live." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
beauty  and  tenderness.  "Your  mother " 

"None  of  that,"  he  broke  in.  "I  am  my  own 
master.  To  me  you  are  the  most  beautiful  crea 
ture  in  the  world,  and " 

"Somebody's  comin',"  she  said. 

A  horseman  came  round  a  bend  in  the  road, 
and  he  stepped  off  from  her,  but  they  did  not 
permit  the  horseman  to  pass  between  them.  He 
did  not  put  his  arm  about  her  again,  for  now 
they  were  within  sight  of  her  uncle's  desolate 
house.  They  saw  Wash  Sanders  sitting  on  the 
verandah.  Tom  carried  the  jug  as  far  as  the 
yard  gate. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  Sanders  called. 

"I  ought  to  be  getting  back,  I  guess." 

"Might  come  in  and  rest  awhile." 

Tom  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  passed 
through  the  gate.  The  girl  had  run  into  the 
house. 

"How  are  you  getting  along?"  the  young  man 
asked  as  he  began  slowly  to  tramp  up  the  steps. 

"Porely,  mighty  porely.  Thought  I  was  gone 
last  night — didn't  sleep  a  wink.  And  I  don't 
eat  enough  to  keep  a  chicken  alive." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  mess  of  young  squir 
rels?"  Tom  asked,  as  he  sat  down  in  a  hickory 
rocking  chair.  Of  late  he  had  become  interested 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


79 


in  Wash  Sanders,  and  had  resented  the  neigh 
bors'  loss  of  confidence  in  him. 

"Well,  you  might  bring  'em  if  it  ain't  too  much 
trouble,  but  I  don't  believe  I  could  eat  'em. 
Don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  chicken  alive." 

He  lifted  his  pale  hand,  and  with  his  long 
finger  nail  scratched  his  chin. 

"What's  the  doctor's  opinion?"  Tom  asked,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  say  and  feeling  that  at  that 
moment  some  expression  was  justly  demanded 
of  him. 

"The  doctors  don't  say  anything  now ;  they've 
given  me  up.  From  the  first  they  saw  that  I  was 
a  dead  man.  Last  doctor  that  gave  me  medi 
cine  was  a  fellow  from  over  here  at  Gum 
Springs,  and  I  wish  I  may  die  dead  if  he  didn't 
come  in  one  of  finishin'  me  right  there  on  the 
spot." 

There  came  a  tap  at  a  window  that  opened  out 
upon  the  verandah,  and  the  young  fellow,  look 
ing  around,  saw  the  girl  sitting  in  the  K 
"best  room."     She  tried  to  put  on  the 
appearance  of  having  accidentally  at 
tracted  his  attention.      He  moved  his 
chair  closer  to  the  window. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  in  here?" 
she  asked,  looping  back  the  white  cur 
tain. 

"I  can  always  tell  where  you  are 
without  looking." 


WASH  SANDERS. 


80  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  make  fun  of  me  again?" 

"If  I  could  even  eat  enough  to  keep  a  chicken 
alive  I  think  I'd  feel  better,"  said  Wash  Sanders, 
looking  far  off  down  the  road. 

"I  never  did  make  fun  of  you,"  the  young 
fellow  declared  in  a  whisper,  leaning  close  to 
the  window.  "And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep 
on  saying  that  I  do." 

"I  won't  say  it  any  more  if  you  don't  want  me 
to." 

"But  I  can't  eat  and  can't  sleep,  and  that  set 
tles  it,"  said  Wash  Sanders. 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  say  it.  It 
makes  me  think  that  you  are  looking  for  an 
excuse  not  to  like  me." 

"Would  you  care  very  much  if  I  didn't  like 
you?" 

"If  I  had  taken  another  slug  of  that  Gum 
Springs  doctor's  stuff  I  couldn't  have  lived  ten 
minutes  longer,"  said  Wash  Sanders. 

And  thus  they  talked  until  the  sun  was  sinking 
into  the  tops  of  the  trees,  far  down  below  the 
bend  in  the  river. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  81 


CHAPTER  VII. 

At  the  Major's  house  the  argument  was  still 
warm  and  vigorous.  But  the  evening  was  come, 
and  the  bell-cow,  home  from  her  browsing,  was 
ringing  for  admittance  at  the  barn-yard  gate. 
The  priest  arose  to  go.  At  that  moment  there 
was  a  heavy  step  at  the  end  of  the  porch,  the 
slow  and  ponderous  tread  of  Jim  Taylor.  He 
strode  in  the  shadow  and  in  the  gathering  dusk 
recognition  of  him  would  not  have  been 
easy,  but  by  his  bulk  and  height  they  knew  him. 
But  he  appeared  to  have  lost  a  part  of  his  great 
strength,  and  he  drooped  as  he  walked. 

"Where  is  the  Major?"  he  asked,  and  his  voice 
was  hoarse. 

"Here,  my  boy.    Why,  what's  the  trouble?" 

"Let  me  see  you  a  moment,"  he  said,  halt 
ing. 

The  Major  arose,  and  the  giant,  with  one 
stride  forward,  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  away  amid  the  black  shadows  under  the 
trees.  Mrs.  Cranceford  came  out  upon  the 
porch  and  stood  looking  with  cool  disapproval 
upon  the  priest.  At  a  window  she  had  sat  and 
heard  him  enunciate  his  views.  Out  in  the  yard 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


Jim  Taylor  said  something  in  a  broken  voice, 
and  the  Major,  madly  bellowing,  came  bound 
ing  toward  the  house. 

"Margaret,"  he  cried,  "Louise  is  married!" 
The  woman  started,  uttered  not  a  sound,  but 
hastening  to  meet  him,  took  him  by  the  hand. 
Jim  Taylor  came  ponderously  walking  from 
amid  the  black  shadows.  The  Englishman  and 
old  Gid  stole  away.  The  priest  stood  calmly 
looking  upon  the  old  man  and  his  wife. 

"John,  come  and  sit  down,"  she  said.  "Rav 
ing  won't  do  any  good.  We  must  be  seemly, 
whatever  we  are."  She  felt  the  eye  of  the  priest. 
"Who  told  you,  Mr.  Taylor?" 

"The  justice  of  the  peace.  They  were  married 
about  an  hour  ago,  less  than  half  a  mile  from 
here." 

She  led  the  Major  to  a  chair,  and  he  sat  down 
heavily.     "She  shall    never    darken    my   door 
again,"  he  declared,  striving  to  stiffen 
his  shoulders,  but  they  drooped  under 
his  effort. 

"Don't  say  that,  dear." 
"But   I   do  say   it — ungrateful   little 
wretch." 

The  priest  stepped  forward  and  raised 
his  hand.  "May  the  blessings  of  our 
Heavenly  Father  rest  upon  this  house 
hold,"  he  said.  The  woman  looked  a 
defiance  at  him.  He  bowed  and  was 


T  THE  ni.F.SSINGS  OF  OUR 
KAVENLY  FATHKU  REST 
UPON  THIS  HOL'SK- 
HOLD." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  83 

gone.  Jim  Taylor  stood  with  his  head  hung 
low.  Slowly  he  began  to  speak.  "Major,  you 
and  your  wife  are  humiliated,  but  I  am  heart 
broken.  You  are  afflicted  with  a  sorrow,  but  I 
am  struck  down  with  grief.  But  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  say  that  she  shan't  come  home  again.  Her 
marriage  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  she  is  your 
daughter.  Her  relationship  toward  you  may  not 
be  so  much  changed,  but  to  me  she  is  lost.  I 
beg  you  not  to  say  she  shan't  come  home  again." 

Mrs.  Cranceford  tenderly  placed  her  hand  on 
the  giant's  arm.  He  shook  under  her  touch. 

"I  will  say  it  and  I  mean  it.  She  has  put  her 
feet  on  our  love  and  has  thrown  herself  away, 
and  I  don't  want  to  see  her  again.  I  do  think 
she  is  the  completest  fool  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 
Yes,  and  we  loved  her  so.  And  Tom — it  will 
break  his  heart." 

In  the  dusk  the  wife's  white  hand  was  gleam 
ing — putting  back  the  gray  hair  from  her  hus 
band's  eyes.  "And  we  still  love  her  so,  dear," 
she  said. 

"What!"  he  cried,  and  now  his  shoulders  stif 
fened.  "What!  do  you  uphold  her?" 

"Oh,  no,  but  I  am  sorry  for  her,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  turn  against  her  simply  because  she  has 
made  a  mistake.  She  has  acted  unwisely,  but 
she  has  not  disgraced  herself." 


84  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Yes,  she  has  disgraced  herself  and  the  rest 
of  us  along  with  her.  She  has  married  the  dy 
ing  son  of  a  convict.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you 
this— I  told  her " 

This  was  like  a  slap  in  the  face,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  she  was  bereft  of  the  cool  dignity  that  had 
been  so  pronounced  a  characteristic  of  her  quiet 
life. 

"If  you  didn't  tell  me  before  why  do  you  tell 
me  now?"  was  her  reply.  She  stood  back  from 
him,  regathering  her  scattered  reserve,  striving 
to  be  calm.  "But  it  can't  be  helped  now,  John." 
Her  gentle  dignity  reasserted  itself.  "Let 
time  and  the  something  that  brightens  hopes 
and  softens  fears  gradually  soothe  our  af 
fliction." 

She  had  taken  up  the  Major's  manner  of 
speech.  "Mr.  Taylor,  I  have  never  intimated 
such  a  thing  to  you  before,"  she  added,  "but  it 
was  my  hope  that  she  might  become  your  wife. 
There,  my  dear  man,  don't  let  it  tear  you  so." 

The  giant  was  shaken,  appearing  to  be 
gnarled  and  twisted  by  her  words,  like  a  tree  in 
a  fierce  wind.  "I  talked  to  her  about  you,"  she 
continued,  "and  it  was  my  hope — but  now  let  us 
be  kind  to  her  memory,  if  indeed  we  are  to  re 
gard  her  simply  as  a  memory." 

"Margaret,"  said  the  Major,  getting  up  and 
throwing  back  his  leonine  head,  "you  are  enough 
to  inspire  me  with  strength — you  always  have. 
But  while  you  may  teach  me  to  bear  a  trouble, 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  85 

you  can't  influence  me  to  turn  counter  to  the 
demands  of  a  just  resentment.  She  shan't  put 
her  foot  in  this  house  again.  Jim,  you  can  find 
a  more  suitable  woman,  sir.  Did  you  hear  what 
became  of  them  after  that  scoundrel  married 
them?  Who  performed  the  ceremony?  Mor 
ris?  He  must  never  put  his  foot  in  my  yard 
again.  I'll  set  the  dogs  on  him.  What  became 
of  them,  Jim?" 

"I  didn't  hear,  but  I  think  that  they  must  have 
driven  to  town  in  a  buggy." 

"Well,  it  really  makes  no  difference  what  be 
came  of  them.  Are  you  going,  Jim?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Won't  you  stay  with  us  to-night?" 

"No,  I  thank  you.  It's  better  for  me  to  be 
alone."  He  hesitated.  "If  you  want  me  to  I'll 
find  out  to-night  where  they've  gone." 

"Oh,  no,  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  for  I  assure 
you  that  it  makes  no  difference.  Let  them  go 
to  the  devil." 

"John,  don't  say  that,  please,"  his  wife  pleaded. 

"But  I  have  said  it.  Well,  if  you  are  deter 
mined  to  go,  good-night." 

"Good-night."  Jim  strode  off  into  the  dark 
ness,  but  halted  and  turned  about.  "Major,  if  I 
can  forgive  her  you  ought  to,"  he  said.  "You've 
got  common  sense  to  help  you,  but  common 
sense  was  never  known  to  help  a  man  that's  in 
my  fix." 


86  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

They  heard  the  gate  open,  heard  the  latch  click 
behind  him  as  he  passed  out  into  the  road. 
Toward  his  lonely  home  he  trod  his  heavy  way, 
in  the  sand,  in  the  rank  weeds,  picking  not  his 
course,  stumbling,  falling  once  to  his  knees.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  pungent  scent  of  the  walnut, 
turning  yellow,  and  in  it  was  a  memory  of 
Louise.  Often  had  he  seen  her  with  her  apron 
full  of  nuts  that  had  fallen  from  the  trees  under 
which  he  now  was  passing.  He  halted  and 
looked  about  him.  The  moon  was  rising  and 
he  saw  some  one  sitting  on  a  fence  close  by  the 
road  side.  "Is  that  you,  Jim?"  a  voice  called. 

"Yes.    Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Mr.  Batts?" 

"Yep,  just  about.  Hopped  up  here  to  smell 
the  walnuts.  Takes  me  away  back.  They  took 
it  pretty  hard,  didn't  they?" 

"Yes,  particularly  the  Major.  His  wife  has 
more  control  over  herself." 

"Or  may  be  less  affection,"  Gid  replied.  "They 
say  she's  strong,  but  I  call  her  cold.  Hold  on 
and  I'll  walk  with  you."  He  got  down  off  the 
fence  and  walked  beside  the  giant.  "She's  a 
mighty  strange  woman  to  me,"  the  old  man 
said  when  they  had  walked  for  a  time  in  silence. 
"But  there's  no  question  of  the  fact  that  she's 
strong,  that  is,  as  some  people  understand 
strength.  To  me,  I  gad,  there  is  more  force  in 
affection  than  in  restraint.  She  loves  her  chil 
dren — no  doubt  about  that — and  of  course  she 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  87 

thinks  the  world  of  the  Major,  but  somehow  she 
misjudges  people.  She  doesn't  understand  me 
at  all.  But  I  reckon  the  majority  of  men  are  too 
deep  for  a  woman.  I  didn't  want  to  see  them 
in  the  throes  of  their  trouble,  and  I  says  to  the 
Englishman,  'it's  time  to  git/  and  we  got.  He 
wanted  me  to  go  over  to  his  house  and  get  some 
Scotch  whisky.  I  told  him  that  the  last  rain 
must  have  left  some  water  in  a  hollow  stump 
near  my  house,  and  that  I  preferred  it  to  his  out 
landish  drink.  And  hanged  if  he  didn't  think 
I  was  in  earnest.  Yes,  sir,  I  knew  that  girl 
would  marry  him;  and  let  me  tell  you,  if  I  was 
a  youngster  I  would  rather  have  her  love  than 
the  love  of  any  woman  I  ever  saw.  There's 
something  about  her  I  never  saw  in  any  other 
woman — I  gad,  she's  got  character;  understand 
me?  She  ain't  beautiful,  hardly  handsome,  but 
there's  something  about  her,  hanged  if  I  know 
what  it  is.  But  it's  something;  and  I've  always 
found  that  the  strongest  charm  about  a  woman 
is  a  something  that  you  can't  exactly  catch — 
something  that  is  constantly  on  the  dodge.  And 
you  bet  I've  had  lots  of  experience.  The  Major 
could  tell  you  many  a  story  on  me.  Yes,  sir. 
Say,  Jim,  I  know  how  you  feel  over  this  affair, 
and  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I'm  your 
friend,  first,  last  and  all  the  time.  I've  been  try 
ing  to  talk  up  to  the  right  place,  but  now  I  don't 
exactly  know  what  to  say." 


88  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Don't  say  anything,  Uncle  Gideon." 

"I  reckon  that  would  be  about  the  wisest  plan. 
Just  wanted  to  let  you  know  where  to  find  me. 
Strange  things  happen  even  in  this  quiet  com 
munity,  don't  they?  But  I'm  woefully  sorry 
that  this  special  thing  has  happened.  I  gad,  the 
Major  snorted  so  loud  that  my  horse  broke  loose 
from  the  post,  and  that's  the  reason  I'm  stepping 
around  here  like  a  blind  dog  in  a  meat  house. 
Begin  pickin'  to-morrow,  I  reckon?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  had  made  all  my  arrange 
ments,  but  now  after  what's  happened  I  don't 
care  whether  there's  a  boll  picked  or  not.  I'm 
let  down." 

"Don't  feel  that  way,  old  fellow.  You'll  be  all 
right  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Mr.  Batts,  if  I  didn't  know  that  you  were 
trying  to  soothe  me  I  would  take  that  remark- 
as  an  insult.  If  I  thought  I  wasn't  any  more 
steadfast  than  to  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two — 
if  I  really  believed  my  character  that  light,  I 
swear  I'd  go  this  minute  and  drown  myself." 

"Why,  my  dear  boy,  you  know  I  didn't  mean 
to  infer  that  your  heart  had  no  more  memory 
than  that.  What  I  meant  was  that  your  sense 
of  resignation  would  demand  a  hearing,  so  to 
speak.  Let  me  tell  you  something.  I  under 
stand  that  girl  better  than  her  father  or  mother 
does — I  have  made  her  a  special  study,  and  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  when  I  take  the  trouble 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  89 

to  throw  my  mind  on  a  woman  a  mystery  has 
to  be  cleared  right  then  and  there.  And  this 
is  what  I  want  to  say:  She  has  married  that 
fellow  out  of  pity.  I  don't  believe  she  loves  him. 
Always  was  ruled  by  pity.  Recollect  hearing 
the  Major  tell  of  a  sudden  streak  of  misfortune 
that  overtook  his  family  when  he  was  a  child. 
His  father  had  to  sell  several  of  his  slaves,  and 
his  old  black  mammy  stood  on  the  block  with 
him  in  her  arms  while  they  were  auctioning  her 
off.  Well,  sir,  Louise  cried  about  that  fit  to  kill 
herself.  We  told  her  how  long  ago  it  had  hap 
pened,  and  impressed  on  her  the  fact  that  the 
old  woman  was  soon  bought  back,  but  she  kept 
on  crying  over  the  cruelty  of  the  thing.  Yes,  sir. 
Well,  I  turn  off  here.  Good  night." 

In  the  dark  the  Major  walked  about  the  yard 
mournfully  calling  Tom.  A  negro  woman  said 
that  she  had  seen  him  going  down  the  road,  and 
the  old  gentleman  returned  to  the  porch  and  sat 
down.  In  the  sitting  room  a  lamp  was  burning, 
and  a  patch  of  light  fell  about  his  chair.  He 
wanted  to  tell  the  young  man  of  the  trouble  that 
had  fallen  upon  the  household,  and  yet  he 
dreaded  to  hear  his  footstep.  Tom  was  so  proud 
of  his  sister,  had  always  looked  up  to  her,  had 
regarded  her  whims  as  an  intellectual  diversion; 
and  now  what  a  disappointment.  How  sadly 
would  his  heart  be  wrung.  From  a  distant  room 
came  the  pling-plang  of  a  banjo. 


90  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"There's  Tom,  Margaret.  Will  you  please  tell 
him  to  come  here?  I  don't  want  to  see  him  in 
the  light" 

Mrs.  Cranceford  hastened  to  obey,  and  the 
Major  sat  listening.  He  pushed  his  chair 'back 
out  of  the  patch  of  light.  The  banjo  hushed  its 
twanging,  and  then  he  heard  Tom  coming.  The 
young  man  stepped  out  upon  the  porch.  His 
mother  halted  in  the  doorway. 

"Tom,"  said  the  Major,  "I  have  a  desperate 
piece  of  news,  and  I  wish  I  could  break  it  to  you 
gently,  but  there  is  no  way  to  lead  up  to  it. 
Your  sister  has  married  Carl  Pennington." 

"Yes,  so  Jim  Taylor  told  me.  Met  him  in 
the  road  a  while  ago.  I  didn't  know  that  there 
was  anything  of  the  sort  on  hand.  Must  have 
kept  it  mighty  quiet.  I  suppose " 

"What,  you  suppose!  What  the  deuce  can 
you  suppose !  Stand  there  supposing  when  I  tell 
you  that  she  has  married  a  dying  man."  The 
old  gentleman  flounced  in  his  chair.  "She  has 
thrown  herself  away  and  I  tell  you  of  it  and  you 
want  to  suppose.  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
Have  you  lost  all  your  pride  and  your  sense? 
She  has  married  a  dying  man,  I  tell  you." 

The  young  fellow  began  awkwardly  to  twist 
himself  about.  He  looked  at  his  mother,  stand 
ing  in  the  door  with  the  light  pouring  about  her, 
but  her  eyes  were  turned  from  him,  gazing  far 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  91 

away  into  the  deepening  night.  "I  know  they 
might  think  he's  dying,"  he  said,  "but  they  might 
be  mistaken.  Sometimes  they  believe  a  man's 
dying  and  he  keeps  on  living.  Wash  Sand 
ers " 

"Go  back  to  your  banjo,  you  idiot!"  the  Major 
shouted.  "I'll  swear  this  beats  any  family  on 
the  face  of  the  earth."  He  got  up,  knocking 
over  his  chair.  "Go  on.  Don't  stand  there  try 
ing  to  splutter  an  explanation  of  your  lack  of 
sense!  No  wonder  you  have  always  failed  to 
pass  an  examination.  Not  a  word,  Margaret. 
I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say:  Beats  any 
family  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 


92  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

On  the  morrow  there  was  a  song  and  a  chant 
in  the  cotton  fields.  Aged  fingers  and  youthful 
hands  were  eager  with  grabbing  the  cool,  dew- 
dampened  fleece  of  the  fields.  The  women  wore 
bandana  handkerchiefs,  and  picturesquely  down 
the  rows  their  red  heads  were  bobbing.  Whence 
came  their  tunes,  so  quaintly  weird,  so  boister 
ous  and  yet  so  full  of  melancholy?  The  com 
poser  has  sought  to  catch  them,  has  touched 
them  with  his  refining  art  and  has  spoiled  them. 
The  playwright  has  striven  to  transfer  from  the 
field  to  the  stage  a  cotton-picking  scene  and  has 
made  a  travesty  of  it.  To  transfer  the  passions 
of  man  and  to  music-riddle  them  is  an  art  with 
stiff-jointed  rules,  but  the  charm  of  a  cotton- 
picking  scene  is  an  essence,  and  is  breathed  but 
cannot  be  caught.  Here  seems  to  lie  a  senti 
ment  that  no  other  labor  invites,  and  though  old 
with  a  thousand  endearments,  it  is  ever  an  opera 
rehearsed  for  the  first  time.  But  this  is  the  view 
that  may  be  taken  only  by  the  sentimentalist, 
the  poet  loitering  along  the  lane.  To  him  it  is 
a  picture  painted  to  delight  the  eye,  to  soothe 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


93 


the  nerves,  to  inspire  a  pastoral  ode.  There  is, 
however,  another  side.  At  the  edge  of  the  field 
where  the  cotton  is  weighed,  stands  the  planter 
watching  the  scales.  His  commercial  instincts 
might  have  been  put  to  dreamy  sleep  by  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  purple  bloom,  but  it  is  keenly 
aroused  by  the  opening  boll.  He  is  influenced 
by  no  song,  by  no  color  fantastically  bobbing 
between  the  rows.  He  is  alert,  determined  not 
to  be  cheated.  Too  much  music  might  cover 
a  rascally  trick,  might  put  a  clod  in  the  cotton 
to  be  weighed.  Sentiment  is  well  enough,  and 
he  can  get  it  by  turning  to  Walter  Scott. 

None  of  the  planters  was  shrewder  than  the 
Major.     In  his  community  he  was  the  business   * 
as  well  as  the  social    model.     At  planting,    at 
plowing  and  at  gathering,  no  detail  was  too  small 
or  too  illusive  to  escape  his  eye.     His  interests 
were  under  a  microscopic  view  and  all  plans  that 
were  drawn  in  the  little  brick  office  at  the  cor 
ner  of  the  yard,  were  rigorously  carried  out 
in  the  fields.    In  the  one  place  he  was  all  busi-  ^ 
ness;   in  the   other  there  was  in 
him  an  admixture  of  good  humor 
and  executive  thoroughness.    He 
knew    how    many 
pounds    of    cotton    a 
certain  man  or  woman 
was  likely  to 
pick    within 


GOING  TO  THE  COTTON  FIELD. 


94  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER, 

t 

the  working  hours  of  a  day,  and  he  marked  the 
clean  and  the  trashy  pickers;  and  the  play  of 
his  two-colored  temperament  was  seen  in  his 
jovial  banter  of  the  one  and  his  harsh  reprimand 
of  the  other.  But  to-day  a  hired  man  stood  at 
the  scales  to  see  the  cotton  weighed.  The  Major 
walked  abroad  throughout  the  fields.  As  he 
drew  near,  the  negroes  hushed  their  songs  and 
their  swaggering  talk.  They  bowed  respectfully 
to  him  and  to  one  another  whispered  his  afflic 
tion.  At  noon,  when  he  returned  home,  the 
housekeeper  told  him  that  his  wife  was  away. 
He  sat  down  in  the  library  to  wait  for  her.  Look 
ing  out  he  saw  Sallie  Pruitt  carrying  a  jug  across 
the  yard.  A  few  moments  later  he  asked  for 
Tom  and  was  told  that  he  had  just  left  the  house. 
He  tried  to  read,  but  nothing  interested  him. 
There  was  nothing  but  dullness  in  the  newspa 
per  and  even  Ivanhoe  had  lost  his  charm.  It 
was  nearly  three  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Cranceford 
returned.  He  did  not  ask  whither  she  had 
gone ;  he  waited  to  be  told.  She  sat  down,  tak 
ing  off  her  gloves. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Perdue?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  have  seen  no  one.  Don't  care  much  to 
see  any  one." 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have  met 
him.  He  was  here  this  morning.  Told  me 
about  Louise." 

"What  does  he  know  about  her?" 

"He  told  me  where  she  had  gone  to  live — in 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  95 

that  old  log  house  at  the  far  end  of  the  Anthony 
place." 

"Well,  go  on,  I'm  listening." 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  cared  to  hear." 

"Then  why  did  you  begin  to  tell  me?" 

She  did  not  answer  this  question.  She  waited 
for  him  to  say  more.  "Of  course  I'd  like  to 
know  what  has  become  of  her." 

"I  went  over  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Cranceford. 

"The  deuce  you  did." 

"John,  don't  talk  that  way." 

"I  won't.     You  went  to  see  her." 

"Yes,  and  in  that  miserable  house,  all  open, 
she  is  nursing  her  dying  husband." 

The  Major  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about 
the  room.  "Don't,  Margaret,  I'd  rather  not  hear 
about  it." 

"But  you  must  hear.  No  place  could  be  more 
desolate.  The  wind  was  moaning  in  the  old 
plum  thicket.  The  gate  was  down  and  hogs 
were  rooting  in  the  yard.  Louise  did  not  hear 
me  as  I  drove  up,  the  wind  was  moaning  so  dis 
tressfully  among  the  dead  plum  bushes — she  did 
not  know  that  I  was  on  the  place  until  I  en 
tered  the  room  where  she  sat  at  the  bedside  of 
her  husband.  She  jumped  up  with  a  cry  and " 

"Margaret,  please  don't." 

"I  must  tell  you,  John.  I  will  tell  you.  She 
jumped  up  with  a  cry  and  ran  to  me,  and  started 
to  take  off  my  cloak,  but  remembering  that  there 


SHE'S 
IN 


THE  BEST  COOK 
THE  WHOLE 
COUNTRY. 


was  no  fire  in  the  damp  room,  she  let  it 
stay  on.  She  tried  to  speak  but  couldn't. 
Her  husband  held  out  his  waxen  hand, 
and  when  I  took  it  I  shuddered  with  the 
cold  chill  it  sent  through  me." 

"Margaret,  I  am  going  out,"  said  the 
Major,  turning  toward  the  door. 

"If  you  do,  John,  I  will  go  with  you 
and  tell  you  as  we  walk  along.  Please 
sit  down." 

He  sat  down  with  an  air  of  helpless 
ness.  His  wife  continued:  "In  the 
room  there  was  scarcely  any  furniture, 
nothing  to  soften  the  appearance  of 
bleakness.  I  asked  why  no  fire  had 
been  made,  and  Louise  said  that  she  had 
engaged  a  negro  to  cut  some  wood,  but 
that  he  had  gone  away.  She  had  paid 
him  in  advance.  She  would  herself 
have  kindled  a  fire,  but  there  was  no  axe 
on  the  place,  and  she  was  afraid  to  leave  her 
husband  long  enough  to  go  to  the  woods  to 
gather  sticks.  I  went  out  and  found  the  negro 
dozing  in  the  sun.  He  was  impudent  when  I 
spoke  to  him,  but  when  I  told  him  my  name 
and  threatened  him  with  you,  he  scuffled  to  his 
feet  and  sauntered  off,  and  I  thought  that  we 
should  see  no  more  of  him,  but  soon  we  heard 
the  lazy  strokes  of  his  axe.  And  shortly  after 
ward  we  had  a  fire.  Louise  was  in  one  of  her 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  97 

silent  moods,  but  Pennington  talked  as  much 
as  his  cough  would  permit  him.  He  said  that 
it  was  all  his  fault.  1  told  her/  said  he,  'that 
unless  she  married  me  I  would  die  blaspheming 
the  name  of  God,  and  that  if  she  would  save  me 
from  hell  she  must  be  my  wife.  I  know  that  it 
was  selfish  and  mean,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
And  so  she  has  married  me  to  save  my  soul.' 
He  grew  excited  and  I  tried  to  calm  him.  I 
told  him  that  you  were  angry  at  first,  but  that 
now  you  were  in  a  better  humor  toward  him." 

"Margaret " 

"This  appeared  to  help  him,  but  I  saw  that 
Louise  did  not  believe  me.  However,  I  com 
manded  her  to  come  home  and  bring  her  hus 
band  with  her.  But  she  shook  her  head  and 
declared  that  she  would  never  again  enter  your 
house  until  she  could  in  some  way  discharge 
the  debt  of  gratitude  with  which  you  reproached 
her,  which  she  says  you  flaunted  in  her  face  at 
a  time  when  she  was  greatly  distressed." 

"What!     I  don't  exactly  understand." 

"Yes,  you  do,  dear.  You  reminded  her  that 
you  had  saved  her  life,  and  told  her  that  you 
based  your  plea  for  obedience  upon  your  own 
gallantry." 

"Oh,  that  was  a  piece  of  mere  nonsense,  a 
theatrical  trick.  Of  course  I  don't  deserve  any 
credit  for  having  saved  the  life  of  my  own  child." 

"It  may  have  been  a  theatrical  trick  with  you, 
7 


98  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

but  it  wasn't  with  her.  She  keenly  feels  your 
reproach." 

"Confound  it,  you  are  both  making  a  monster 
of  me." 

"No,  dear,  that  is  not  our  design." 

"Our  design!  Have  you  too,  set  yourself 
against  me?  Let  me  go  to  old  Gideon.  He's 
the  only  friend  I've  got" 

"John,  you  mustn't  say  that.  And  why,  at  this 
time,  should  you  refer  to  that  old  sinner?  But 
let  me  go  on.  While  I  was  there  the  doctor 
came,  and  shortly  afterward  we  heard  a  heavy 
tread  on  the  flapping  boards  of  the  passage-way 
that  divides  the  two  sections  of  the  old  house." 

"Jim  Taylor,"  said  the  Major. 

"Yes,  Jim  Taylor.  Louise  jumped  up  in  a 
flutter.  He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  her  excite 
ment.  'I  heard  that  you  were  living  lieTe/  he 
said,  'and  knowing  what  sort  of  an  old  place 
it  is,  I've  come  to  see  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to 
you.'  Here  he  looked  about  at  the  cracks  in  the 
walls  and  the  holes  in  .the  roof.  'And  you'll 
pardon  me,'  he  went  on,  'but  I  took  the  liberty 
to  bring  a  carpenter  along  to  patch  up  things  a 
little.  That's  him  out  there  at  work  on  the  gate.' 
Louise  began  to  cry.  He  pretended  not  to  no 
tice  her.  'It  won't  take  long  to  make  this  a 
very  comfortable  place,'  he  went  on,  'and  I  hope 
you  won't  feel  offended,  but  I  have  brought 
some  young  chickens  and  a  squirrel  or  two — in 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  99 

a  basket  out  there  in  the  kitchen.  I  always  was 
a  sort  of  a  neighborly  fellow  you  know.'  'You 
are  the  best  man  in  the  world/  Louise  broke  out. 
'No,  not  in  the  world,  but  I  reckon  I  can  stand 
flat-footed  and  lift  with  the  most  of  them/  he 
replied,  assuming  that  he  thought  she  referred 
to  his  strength.  'Yes/  he  continued,  'and  the 
boys  will  be  here  pretty  soon  with  the  wagon 
to  haul  you  some  wood.  And  I  hope  you'll  par 
don  me  again,  but  nothing  would  do  old  Aunt 
Nan  but  she  must  come  over  to  cook  for  you 
and  help  you  take  oare  of  Mr.  Pennington  until 
he  gets  about  again.  She's  the  best  cook  in 
the  whole  country.  You  know  the  governor 
of  the  state  once  said  that  she  could  beat  any 
body  frying  a  chicken,  and ' " 

"Confound  his  impudence!"  exclaimed  the 
Major,  grinding  the  floor  as  he  wheeled  about, 
"he's  performing  the  offices  that  belong  to  me. 
And  I  won't  stand  it" 

"The  offices  that  did  belong  to  you,  dear,  but 
you  have  washed  your  hands  of  them." 

"Have  I?  Well,  we'll  see  about  that.  I'll 
send  over  there  and  have  everything  put  to 
rights.  No,  I'll  send  the  carriage  and  have  them 
brought  home.  I'll  be — I  say  I  won't  be  made 
a  scape-goat  of  in  this  way.  Why,  con 
found " 

"John." 

"Yes,  I  understand,  but  I  won't  put  up  with  it 


100  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

any  longer.  I'll  send  Tom  over  there — I'll  send 
the  law  over  there  and  bring  them  home  under 
arrest." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  it  will  be  of  no  use 
to  send  for  them.  Louise  will  not  come,  and 
you  know  she  won't.  Besides,  we  can  make 
her  just  as  comfortable  there  as  here.  It  will 
not  be  for  long,  so  let  her  have  her  own  way." 

"By  the  blood,  she  has  had  it!" 

"John,  have  you  forgotten  that  you  are  a 
member  of  the  church?" 

"That's  all  right.  But  do  you  mean  by  mem 
ber  of  the  church  that  I  am  to  draw  in  my  head 
like  a  high-land  terrapin  every  time  anything  is 
said  to  me?  Am  I  to  be  brow-beaten  by  every 
body  just  because  I  belong  to  the  church?  Oh,  it's 
a  happy  day  for  a  woman  when  she  can  squash 
her  husband  with  the  church.  I  gad,  it  seems 
that  all  a  married  woman  wants  with  a  church 
is  to  hit  her  husband  on  the  head  with  it." 

"John,  now  you  are  the  echo  of  old  Gid." 

"I'm  not  and  you  know  it,  but  there  are  times 
when  a  man  would  be  excusable  for  being  the 
echo  of  the  devil.  But  for  gracious  sake  don't 
cry.  Enough  to  make  a  man  butt  his  head 
against  the  wall.  Just  as  a  man  thinks  a  woman 
is  stronger  than  a  lion  she  tunes  up  and  cries. 
There,  Margaret,  let  it  all  go.  There."  He  put 
his  arm  about  her.  "Everything  will  come  out 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        101 

all  right.  I  am  wrong  and  I  confess  it.  I  aim 
bull-headed  and  as  mean  as  a  dog." 

"No,  you  are  not,"  she  protested,  wiping  her 
eyes. 

"Yes,  I  am  and  I  see  it  now.  You  are  always 
right.  And  you  may  manage  this  affair  just  as 
you  see  fit.  Poor  little  girl.  But  never  mind, 
it  will  all  come  right.  Let  us  walk  down  the 
lane.  It  is  beautiful  down  there.  The  frost  has 
painted  things  up  for  you;  the  sumac  bushes 
are  flaming  and  the  running  briars  on  the  fences 
are  streams  of  fire.  Come  on."  He  took  her 
by  the  hand  and  led  her  away. 


THE  WIND  MOANED  IN  THE  PLUM  THICKET. 


102        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Within  a  few  days  a  great  change  was  wrought 
in  the  appearance  of  the  old  log  house.  The 
roof,  which  had  been  humped  in  the  middle  like 
the  back  of  a  lean,  acorn-hunting  hog,  was 
straightened  and  reshingled;  the  yard  was  en 
closed  with  a  neat  fence;  and  the  stack  chimney 
which  had  leaned  off  from  the  house  as  if  it 
would  fall,  was  shoved  back  and  held  in  place 
with  strong  iron  bands.  And  the  interior  was 
transformed.  Soft  carpets  were  spread,  easy- 
chairs  provided,  the  rough  walls  were  papered 
and  the  windows  were  curtained.  The  fire-light 
fell  upon  pictures,  and  a  cat  had  come  to  take  her 
place  at  the  corner  of  the  hearth ;  but  in  the  dead 
of  night,  when  all  the  birds  were  hushed,  when 
the  wind  moaned  in  the  plum  thicket,  the  hollow 
and  distressing  cough  echoed  throughout  the 
house.  At  evening  sorrowful-looking  cows 
would  come  down  the  lane,  and  standing  at  the 
gate  would  low  mournfully,  an  attention  which 
they  ever  seek  to  pay  a  dismal  place,  but  Jim 
Taylor  entered  a  complaint,  threatened  violence 
and  finally  compelled  their  owners  to  have  them 
driven  home  before  the  arrival  of  their  time  for 
lonesome  lowing.  It  was  Jim's  custom  to  call 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       103 

at  morning  and  at  evening.  Sometimes,  after 
looking  about  the  place,  he  would  merely  come 
to  the  door  and  ask  after  Mr.  Pennington  and 
then  go  away. 

One  morning  when  Louise  answered  his  tap 
at  the  door,  she  told  him  that  the  sufferer  was 
much  better  and  that  she  believed  he  was  going 
to  get  well. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied.  "The 
doctors  can't  always  tell." 

"Won't  you  come  in?" 

"No,  I  might  worry  him." 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least.  He's  asleep  anyway, 
and  I'm  lonesome.  Come  in,  please." 

He  followed  her  into  the  house,  trying  to  les 
sen  his  weight  as  if  he  were  walking  on  thin  ice; 
and  the  old  house  cracked  its  knuckles,  but  his 
foot-fall  made  not  a  sound.  She  placed  a  chair 
for  him  and  sat  down  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  how  expressive  they  were,  small  and 
thin,  but  shapely.  She  was  pale  and  neat  in  a 
black  gown.  To  him  she  had  never  looked  so 
frail,  and  her  eyes  had  never  appeared  so  deeply 
blue,  but  her  hands — he  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
off  them — one  holding  pity  and  the  other  full 
of  appeal. 

"Don't  you  need  a  little  more  wood  on?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  it's  not  cold  enough  for  much  fire." 

"Where  did  you  get  that  cat?" 


104        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"She  came  crying  around  the  other  day  and 
I  let  her  in,  and  she  has  made  herself  at  home." 

"The  negroes  say  it's  good  luck  for  a  cat  to 
come  to  the  house."  She  sighed.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  in  luck." 

"I  do.  I  believe  in  bad  luck,  for  it's  generally 
with  me.  Does  your  mother  come  every  day?" 

"Yes,  although  I  beg  her  not  to." 

"I  reckon  she'll  do  about  what  she  wants  to. 
Has  the  Major— 

,  She  held  up  her  hand  and  he  sat  looking  at 
her  with  his  mouth  half  open.  But  at  the  risk 
of  offending  her,  he  added:  "I  didn't  know  but 
he  might  have  come  over." 

"He  would,  but  I  won't  let  him." 

"And  do  you  think  it's  exactly  right  not  to  let 
him?" 

"I  think  it  is  exactly  right  to  do  as  a  some 
thing  within  me  dictates,"  she  answered.  "He 
placed  me  in  a  certain  position " 

"But  he  is  more  than  willing  to  take  you  out 
of  it,"  Taylor  broke  in.  "He  doesn't  want  you 
to  remain  in  that  position." 

"No,  he  can't  take  me  out  of  it.  He  charged 
me  with  ingratitude,  and  I  would  rather  he  had 
driven  me  off  the  place.  Nothing  can  be  much 
crueler  than  to  remind  one  of  ingratitude;  it  is 
like  shooting  from  behind  a  rock;  it  is  having 
one  completely  at  your  mercy." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        105 

Now  she  sat  leaning  forward  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  knees.  Pennington  coughed 
slightly  in  his  sleep  and  she  looked  toward  the 
bed.  She  straightened  up  and  put  the  hair  back 
out  of  her  eyes  and  Taylor  followed  the  motion 
of  her  hand. 

"Did  he  eat  the  squirrel?" 

"Yes,  and  enjoyed  it." 

The  cat  got  up,  stretched,  and  rubbing  against 
the  tongs,  knocked  them  down  with  a  clatter. 
Pennington  awoke.  Louise  was  beside  him  in 
a  moment.  "Ah,  it's  you,  Mr.  Taylor,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  but  it  wasn't  me  that  made  the  noise." 

"Oh,  it  didn't  disturb  me,  I  assure  you.  I  was 
just  about  waking  up  anyway.  That  will  do, 
thank  you."  Louise  had  begun  to  arrange  the 
pillows.  "I'll  sit  up.  See  how  strong  I  am. 
Give  me  a  pipe.  I  believe  I  can  smoke  a  little." 

She  went  to  fill  a  pipe  for  him,  and  turning  to 
Taylor,  he  said:  "I'm  getting  stronger  now 
every  day;  good  appetite,  sleep  first-rate.  And 
I'll  be  able  to  walk  about  pretty  soon.  Oh,  they 
had  me  dead,  you  know,  but  I  knew  better  all 
the  time." 

Louise  placed  a  coal  upon  his  pipe  and  handed 
it  to  him.  She  said  that  she  was  afraid  it  might 
make  him  cough,  but  it  did  not. 

"I  have  always  maintained  that  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  my  lungs,"  he  said,  con 
tentedly  blowing  rings  of  smoke.  "Why,  I 


106  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

hadn't  a  symptom  of  consumption  except  the 
cough,  and  that's  about  gone.  And  my  pros 
pects  were  never  better  than  they  are  this  min 
ute.  Received  a  letter  yesterday  from  over  in 
Alabama — want  me  to  take  a  professorship  in  a 
college.  The  first  thing  you  know  I  shall  have 
charge  of  the  entire  institution.  And  when  I 
get  up  in  the  world  I  want  it  understood,  Mr. 
Taylor,  that  I  shall  never  forget  you.  Your 
kindness " 

"Don't  speak  of  it,"  Taylor  put  in,  holding  up 
his  hand  in  imitation  of  Louise.  "I've  known 
this  little  lady,  sir,  all  her  life,  and  I'd  be  a  brute 
to  forget  her  in  time  of  trouble." 

"You  are  a  true-hearted  man,  Mr.  Taylor,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  you,  sir."  And  after  a  short 
silence,  he  added:  "All  I  desire  is  a  chance,  for 
with  it,  I  can  make  Louise  happy.  I  need  but 
little  money,  I  should  not  know  how  to  disport 
a  large  fortune,  but  I  do  desire  a  comfortable 
home  with  pictures  and  books.  And  I  thank 
the  Lord  that  I  appreciate  the  refinements  of  this 
life."  In  silence  he  smoked,  looking  up  at  the 
rings.  "Ah,  but  it  was  dark  for  me  a  short  time 
ago,  Mr.  Taylor.  They  made  me  believe  that  I 
was  going  to  die.  We  hear  a  great  deal  of  res 
ignation,  of  men  who  welcome  the  approach  of 
death,  but  I  was  in  despair.  And  looking  upon 
a  strong  man,  a  man  whose  strength  was  thrown 
upon  him,  a  man  who  had  never  thought  to 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


107 


take  even  the  slightest  care  of  himself,  I  was  torn 
with  blasphemous  rage.  It  wasn't  right.  But 
thank  God,  I  lived  through  that  dark  period, 
and  am  now  getting  well.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  can  see  it.  And  I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do:  I'll  bring  over  the  dogs  pretty  soon 
and  we'll  go  hunting.  How  does  that  strike 
you?" 

Pennington  propped  himself  higher  in  the  bed 
and  put  his  pipe  on  a  chair.  "It  has  been  a  long 
time  since  I  went  hunting,"  he  said,  musingly. 
"It  seems  a  long  time  since  I  have  done  anything, 
except  to  brood  over  my  failing  health.  But  I 
will  have  no  more  of  that.  Yes,  I  will  go  hunting 
with  you."  He  shoved  up  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt 
and  called  his  wife's  attention.  "Don't  you 
think  I'm  getting  more  flesh  on  my  arm?  Look 
here.  No  dying  man  has  this  much  muscle. 
Louise,  I'm  going  to  get  up.  There  is  really  no 
use  of  my  lying  here." 

He  threw  off  the  covers  and  the  giant  arose 
and  stood  looking  upon  him,  smiling  sadly.  He 
asked  for  his  clothes,  and  when  Louise  had 
brought  them  he  picked  at  a  worn  spot  and  said : 
"I  must  get  some  clothes  with  the  first  money  I 
earn.  I  didn't  know  that  this  coat  was 
so  far  gone;  and  the  trousers  are  not 
much  better.  Let  a  man  get  sick  and  he 
feels  that  the  world  is  against  him;  let 
him  get  well  and  wear  poor  clothes,  and 


LOOK  HERE! 


108  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

he  will  find  that  the  world  doesn't  think  enough 
of  him  to  set  itself  against  him — find  that  the 
world  does  not  know  him  at  all." 

Taylor  ventured  upon  the  raveled  platitude 
that  clothes  do  not  make  the  man.  Pennington 
shook  his  head,  still  examining  his  trousers. 
"That  will  do  in  a  copy-book,  but  not  in  life," 
said  he.  And  then  looking  up  as  Taylor  moved 
toward  the  door,  he  asked:  "Are  you  going?" 

"Yes,  I  must  get  back  to  see  how  things  are 
getting  along.  Be  over  again  to-morrow." 

Louise  went  with  him  out  into  the  passage. 
He  halted  at  the  log  step  and  stood  there,  look 
ing  at  her.  "Mr.  Taylor,  I  can  never  forget  your 
kindness/'  she  said. 

"All  right,  but  I  hope  you  won't  remember  to 
mention  it  again." 

He  looked  at  her  hands,  looked  into  her  eyes; 
and  frankly  she  returned  his  gaze,  for  it  was  a 
gaze  long  and  questioning. 

"Your  friendship —  "  he  held  up  his  hand  to 
stop  her.  "Won't  you  let  me  speak  of  that, 
either?" 

"You  may  speak  of  it,  but  you  must  know- 
that  it  does  not  exist,"  he  answered,  leaning 
against  a  corner  of  the  house,  still  looking  at 
her. 

"But  you  don't  mean  that  you  are  not  my 
friend?" 

"I  mean  what  I  told  you  some  time  ago — that 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  109 

there  can  be  no  friendship  between  a  big  man 
and  a  little  woman." 

"Oh,  I  had  forgotten  that." 

"No,  you  hadn't;  you  thought  of  it  just  then 
as  you  spoke." 

"Why,  Mr.  Taylor,  how  can  you  say  that?" 

"I  can  say  it  because  it  is  true.  No,  there  can 
be  no  friendship  between  us." 

"You  surely  don't  mean  that  there  can  be  any 
thing  else."  She  had  drawn  back  from  him  and 
was  stiffly  erect  with  her  arms  folded,  her  head 
high;  and  so  narrow  was  the  hard  look  she  gave 
him  that  her  eyes  appeared  smaller.  Her  lips 
were  so  tightly  compressed  that  dimples  showed 
in  her  cheeks;  and  thus  with  nature's  soft  relics 
of  babyhood,  she  denied  her  own  resentment. 

"On  your  part  I  don't  presume  that  there  can 
be  anything  else,"  he  answered,  speaking  the 
words  slowly,  as  if  he  would  weigh  them  one  at 
a  time  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  "You  may 
think  of  me  as  you  please,  as  circumstances  now 
compel  you  to  think,  and  I  will  think  of  you  not 
as  I  please,  but  as  I  must." 

"Please  don't  talk  that  way.  Don't  reproach 
me  when  I  am  in  such  need  of — of  friendship. 
One  of  these  days  you  may  know  me  better,  but 
now  you  can  regard  me  only  as  a  freak.  Yes,  I 
am  a  freak." 

"You  are  an  angel." 

"Mr.  Taylor!"    Again  her  head  was  high,  and 


110  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

in  her  eyes  was  the  same  suggestion  of  a  sharp 
squint 

"You  didn't  tell  me  that  I  shouldn't  think  of 
you  as  I  please." 

"But  I  didn't  tell  you  to  speak  what  you  might 
be  pleased  to  think.  There,  Carl  is  calling  me. 
Good-bye." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  Ill 


CHAPTER  X. 

Jim  Taylor,  too  humane  to  impose  the  burden 
of  his  weight  upon  a  horse,  always  made  his 
visits  on  foot,  and  this  day  while  trudging  home 
ward,  he  met  Mrs.  Cranceford.  She  had  of  late 
conceived  so  marked  a  sympathy  for  him,  that 
her  manner  toward  him  was  warmly  gentle. 

Taylor  stepped  to  the  road-side  and  halted 
there  as  she  drove  up  alone  in  a  buggy.  With  a 
sorrowful  reverence  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  she 
smiled  sympathetically;  and  the  lazy  old  horse, 
appearing  to  understand  it  all,  stopped  of  his 
own  accord. 

"Good  morning,  Jim.  Have  you  been  over  to 
the  house?" 

"Yes,  ma'm,  just  left  there." 

"How  is  he?" 

"So  much  better  that  I  believe  he's  going  to 
get  well." 

"You  don't  say  so !  Why,  I  am "  she  was 

about  to  say  that  she  was  delighted  to  hear  it, 
but  on  the  giant's  face  she  thought  she  saw  a 
deeper  shadow  lying,  heard  in  his  voice  a  softer 
note  of  sorrow;  and  considerately  she  checked 


112        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

her  intended   utterance.     Then  they  looked  at 
each  other  and  were  ashamed. 

"He  was  up  dressing  himself  when  I  left." 

"You  surprise  me." 

"And  he  has  surprised  us  all,  ma'm.  I  don't 
believe  he's  got  consumption ;  his  cough  has  left 
him.  Why,  he's  thinking  of  taking  a  place  in 
a  college  over  in  Alabama." 

"He  is?  But  I  hope  he  won't  take  Louise  so 
far  from  home." 

He  shifted  his  position  and  sunk  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets.  "I  guess  he  thinks  she 
can't  be  so  very  far  from  home  as  long  as  she  is 
with  him." 

"But  it  makes  no  difference  what  he  thinks." 
Mrs.  Cranceford  persisted.  "He  must  not  take 
her  over  there.  Why,  I  should  think  he  could 
find  employment  here."  Jim  looked  far  away,  and 
she  added:  "Is  your  cotton  turning  out  well?" 

"First-rate,  and  I  want  to  sell  it  as  soon  as  I 
can.  I've  got  to  go  away." 

"Go  away!"  she  repeated.  "You  don't  mean 
it?" 

"Yes,  ma'm,  I  do.  If  he  gets  well  they  won't 
have  any  more  use  for  me  and  I  might  as  well 
go  off  somewhere  and  take  a  fresh  start ;  and  be 
sides,  I  can't  keep  from  showing  that  I  love  her, 
and  no  matter  how  cool  she  might  be  toward 
me  it  couldn't  help  but  pain  him.  And  there  arc 
people  in  this  neighborhood  mean  enough  to  talk 


about  it:     No  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that 

strapping  Alf  Joyner  threw  out  a  hint  of 

this  sort,  and  although  he  meant  it  in  fun, 

maybe,  I  snatched  him  off  the  fence 

where  he  was  sitting,  and  walloped 

him     in     the     road.      No     I 

can't  keep  from  showing  how 

much    I    think  of   her;     there 

is  so  much  of  me,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "that 

I  can't  be  a  hypercrite  all  over  at  once." 

At  this  she  smiled,  but  her  countenance  grew 
serious  and  she  said: 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  been  compelled  to  re-  THE  GIN< 
sent  an  insinuation."  She  gathered  up  the  lines. 
"But  perhaps  you  imagine  more  than  is  intended. 
It  is  easy  and  also  natural  that  you  should." 

Jim  made  no  reply.  She  bowed  to  him,  shook 
the  lines,  and  the  old  horse  moved  on.  Just 
before  reaching  a  bend  in  the  road,  she  looked 
back  at  him.  How  powerful  was  his  bearing, 
how  strong  his  stride;  and  with  all  his  bigness 
he  was  not  ungraceful. 

Everywhere,  in  the  fields,  along  the  fences, 
lay  October's  wasteful  ripeness,  but  the  season 
was  about  to  turn,  for  the  bleak  corner  of  No 
vember  was  in  sight.  A  sharp  wind  blew  out 
of  a  cloud  that  hung  low  over  the  river,  and  far 
away  against  the  darkening  sky  was  a  gray  tri 
angle  traced,  the  flight  of  wild  geese  from  the 

o  *-*•* 


north.  With  the  stiffening 
and  the  lagging  of  the  breeze 
came  lower  and  then  louder 
the  puffing  of  a  cotton  gin. 

Under    a    persimmon    tree 
Jim  Taylor  halted,  and  with 
his  arms  resting  on  a  fence  he  stood 
dreamily  looking  across  a  field.    Afar 
off  the  cotton  pickers  were  bobbins:  be- 

J1M  LOOKED  OVER  THE  _ 

COTTON  FIELDS.  tween  the  rows.    The  scene  was  more 

dull  than  bright;  to  a  stranger  it  would  have  been 
dreary,  the  dead  level,  the  lone  buzzard  away 
over  yonder,  sailing  above  the  tops  of  the 
ragged  trees;  but  for  this  man  the  view  was 
overspread  with  a  memory  of  childhood.  He  was 
meditating  upon  leaving  his  home;  he  felt  that 
his  departure  was  demanded.  And  yet  he  knew 
that  not  elsewhere. could  he  find  contentment. 
Amid  such  scenes  he  had  been  born  and  reared. 
He  was  like  the  deer — would  rather  feed  upon 
the  rough  oak  foliage  of  a  native  forest  than 
to  feast  upon  the  rich  grasses  of  a  strange  land. 
But  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go.  He  had 
heard  of  the  charm  of  the  hills,  the  valleys  and 
the  streams  in  the  northern  part  of  the  state, 
and  once  he  had  gone  thither  to  acquaint  him 
self  with  that  paradise,  but  in  disappointment 
he  had  come  back,  bringing  the  opinion  that 
the  people  were  cold  and  unconcerned  in  the 
comfort  and  the  welfare  of  a  stranger.  So,  with 

114 


this  experience 
fresh  in  his  mind, 
he  was  resolved 
not  to  re-settle 
in  his  own  com 
monwealth,  but 
to  go  to  a  city,j 
though  feeling 
his  unfitness  for 
urban  life.  But 
he  thought,  as  so 
many  men  and 
women  have 
been  forced  to 
think,  that  life 
in  a  crowd  would 
invite  forgetful- 
ness,  that  his 

slow  broodings  would  find  a  swift  flow  into  the 
tide  that  swallows  the  sad  thoughts  of  men. 

A  sudden  noise  in  the  road  broke  the  web 
of  his  musing,  and  looking  about,  he  recog 
nized  Low,  the  Englishman.  Between  his  teeth 
the  Briton  held  his  straight-stem  pipe,  and  on 
his  shoulder  he  carried  his  bath  tub. 

"Moving?"  Taylor  asked. 

"Ah,  good  morning.     No — not  moving.    An 

outrage  has  been  committed.     During  the  night 

someone  punched  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  my 

bath.     Don't  know  who  could  have   done  it; 

115 


^  HIS  SHOULDER  HE  CARRIED 
HIS  BATH  TUB." 


116        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

most  extraordinary,  I  assure  you.  One  of  those 
ungrateful  blacks,  I  warrant.  Going  this  way? 
I  shall  be  glad  of  your  company.  Ah,  do  you 
happen  to  know  of  a  tinker?"  he  asked,  as 
together  they  walked  along  the  road. 

"A  what?" 

"A  tinker  to  mend  my  bath?" 

"Haven't  any  such  thing  about  here,  but  I 
guess  the  blacksmith  can  mend  your  tub.  Here, 
let  me  carry  it  for  you  a  ways.  You  must  be 
tired  of  it  by  this  time." 

He  protested,  but  Taylor  took  the  tub. 
"Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind,  I'm  sure.  I 
would  have  sent  it,  but  these  rascals  are  so 
untrustworthy.  Ah,  how  long  do  you  conjec 
ture  it  would  take  one  to  make  his  fortune  in 
this  community?" 

"It  depends  more  upon  the  man  than 
the  community,"  Taylor  answered.  "I  know 
one  that  never  could." 

"And  by  Jove,  I  fancy  I  have  a  very  intimate 
acquaintance  with  another.  But  I  rather  like 
it  here,  you  know.  I  have  plenty  of  room,  and 
no  one  is  much  disposed  to  interfere  with  me 
except  those  rascally  blacks,  and  upon  my  honor 
I  believe  they  tried  to  ruin  my  bath.  Don't 
you  think  you'd  better  let  me  take  it  now?" 

"No;  I'll  carry  it.  Wouldn't  have  known  I 
had  it  if  you  hadn't  reminded  me." 

"You  are  very  kind,  I'm  sure.     Ah,  by  the 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        117 

way,  a  very  singular  man  called  on  me  yester 
day.  Mayo,  I  believe,  is  his  name." 

"Yes,  we  know  him  down  here.  Came  very 
near  getting  a  dose  of  rope  once.  HJe  tries  to  be 
a  Moses  among  the  negroes,  but  instead  of  lead 
ing  them  out  of  the  wilderness  he's  going  to  lead 
them  into  trouble." 

"I  dare  say  as  much,  if  they  listen  to  him. 
But  he  avers  that  he  doesn't  want  an  office — 
wants  only  to  see  that  the  blacks  get  what  they 
are  entitled  to." 

"And  about  the  first  thing  that  will  be  done 
tor  him  after  he  gets  what  he's  entitled  to," 
Jim  replied,  "will  be  the  sending  of  his  measure 
to  a  coffin  maker."  » 

"I  surmise  as  much,  I  assure  you.  I  didn't 
encourage  him  to  prolong  his  visit;  indeed,  I 
told  him  that  I  preferred  to  be  alone." 

They  turned  out  of  the  lane  into  a  wood, 
crossed  a  bayou,  and  pursuing  their  way  a  short 
distance  further,  Taylor  halted,  and  handing  the 
Englishman  his  tub,  pointed  to  a  path  that 
crossed  the  road.  "That  will  take  you  to  the 
blacksmith  shop,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  you  are  very  kind,"  Low  replied,  shoul 
dering  his  treasure.  He  turned  down  the  path, 
but  after  going  a  short  distance  stopped  and 
faced  about.  "I  say,  there!"  he  cried.  "Oh, 
Taylor.  Just  a  moment.  I  wouldn't  mind  hav- 


118       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

ing  you  over  any  evening,  you  know.  You  are 
a  f  devilish  decent  fellow." 

"All  right;  you  may  look  for  me  most  any 
time.  Take  you  out  'possum  hunting  some 
night." 

Low  was  now  humping  himself  down  the  path, 
and  Taylor  turned  to  pursue  his  way  home 
ward,  when  once  more  the  Englishman  faced 
about  and  shouted:  "You  are  very  kind,  I'm 
sure.  I  shall  be  delighted." 

Jim  Taylor  was  master  of  a  small  plantation 
and  sole  inhabitor  of  the  house  wherein  he  was 
born.  In  the  garden,  under  a  weeping-willow 
tree,  were  the  graves  of  his  parents  and  of  his 
sister,  a  little  girl  recalled  with  emotion — at 
night  when  a  high  wind  was  blowing,  for  she 
had  ever  been  afraid  of  a  storm;  and  she  died 
on  a  day  when  a  fierce  gale  up  the  river 
blew  down  a  cottonwood  tree  in  the  yard.  She 
and  Louise  were  as  sisters.  At  her  grave  the 
giant  often  sat,  for  she  was  a  timid  little  creat 
ure,  afraid  to  be  alone;  and  sometimes  at  night 
when  the  wind  was  hard,  when  a  cutting  sleet 
was  driving,  he  would  get  out  of  his  bed  and 
stand  under  the  tree  to  be  near  her.  It  was 
so  foolishly  sentimental  of  so  strong  a  man 
that  he  would  not  have  dared  to  tell  anyone, 
but  to  the  child  in  the  grave  he  told  his  troubles. 
So,  on  this  morning,  when  the  wind  was  gather 
ing  its  forces  as  it  swept  the  fields,  as  the  clouds 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  119 

were  thickening  far  away  among  the  whitish 
tops  of  the  dead  cypress  trees,  he  went  straight 
way  to  the  weeping- willow,  passed  the  grave  of 
his  father,  his  mother,  and  sat  down  beside  the 
stone  that  bore  the  name  and  the  age  of  the 
little  one. 


120       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

When  Mrs.  Cranceford  returned  home  early 
in  the  afternoon,  she  told  the  Major,  whom  she 
found  pacing  up  and  down  the  long  porch,  that 
Pennington  was  up  and  walking  about  the  house. 
She  told  him,  also,  that  he  was  resolved  upon 
taking  Louise  to  Alabama,  and  added  that  she 
herself  would  oppose  this  determination  up  to 
the  very  moment  of  departure. 

The  Major  grunted.  "What  right  have  you 
to  do  that?"  he  asked.  "Why  should  you  med 
dle  with  the  affairs  of  a  man  that  is  seeking  to 
make  a  living  for  his  wife?" 

"John,  you  are  laughing  at  me  and  I  know  it. 
Here  lately  you  make  light  of  everything  I  say." 

The  season  was  changing,  he  felt  its  influence, 
and  he  shook  with  good  humor  as  he  walked. 

"John,  you  are  so  tickled  that  you  can't  answer 
me." 

"Why,  I  could  answer  you  very  easily  if  I  only 
knew  what  you  want  me  to  say." 

This  broke  her  whimsical  resentment  of  his 
droll  playfulness;  she  laughed  with  him,  and 
taking  his  arm,  walked  up  and  down  the  porch. 
They  talked  of  many  things — of  Louise's  per- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       121 

sistent  stubbornness,  and  of  a  growing  change 
in  the  conduct  of  Tom — his  abstraction  and  his 
gentleness.  He  had  left  uncut  the  leaves  of  a 
sporting  review,  had  taken  to  romances,  and  in 
his  room  had  been  found,  sprawled  on  foolscap, 
an  ill-rhymed  screed  in  rapturous  praise  of 
soulful  eyes  and  flaxen  hair.  Mrs.  Crance- 
ford  knew  that  he  must  be  in  love;  so  did 
the  Major,  but  he  could  not  conjecture  the 
object  of  so  fervid  a  passion.  But  his  wife  had 
settled  upon  the  object  and  was  worried,  though 
of  her  distress  she  had  not  spoken  to  Tom,  so 
recent  had  been  the  discovery  of  the  tell-tale 
blotch  of  ink.  But  she  would  as  soon  as  an 
opportunity  offered. 

"It  will  soon  pass,"  said  the  Major.  "I  don't 
think  he  intends  to  marry  her." 

"Marry  her!"  his  wife  exclaimed.  "I  would 
rather  see  him  dead  than  married  into  a  family 
of  white  trash.  She  may  be  a  most  amiable 
young  person  and  all  that,  but  he  shan't  marry 
her.  It  would  break  my  heart,  and  I  vow  she 
shall  never  come  here.  Why,  she  came  from  the 
pine  woods  and  is  a  cracker." 

"But  the  cracker  may  have  a  most  gallant 
and  well-born  origin,  my  dear,"  the  Major  re 
plied.  "The  victim  of  a  king's  displeasure  is  not 
insignificant;  he  must  have  been  a  force." 

"What!  Do  you  approve  of  it?"  she  demand 
ed,  pulling  away  from  him.  "Is  it  possible  that 


122  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

you  would  not  oppose  his  marriage  into  such 
a  family  as  hers  must  be?" 

"I  don't  think,  my  dear,  that  her  father  was 
in  the  penitentiary." 

"John,  that  is  unworthy  of  you.  I  was  grieved 
at  Louise's  marriage,  and  you  know  it." 
.  In  prankishness  he  sought  a  refuge;  he 
laughed,  but  she  did  not  follow  him.  For  a  mo 
ment  her  black  eyes  were  hard,  then  came  a  look 
of  distress — and  tears.  He  put  his  arm  about  her. 
"Why,  my  dear,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your 
feelings;  bless  your  life,  I  didn't.  Why,  of 
course,  he  shan't  marry  her.  Who  ever  heard 
of  such  a  thing?  I'll  talk  to  him — thrash  him 
if  you  say  the  word.  There,  it's  all  right.  Why, 
here  comes  Gid." 

She  went  into  the  house  as  Batts  came  up, 
glancing  back  at  him  as  she  passed  through  the 
door;  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  nothing  as 
soft  as  a  tear.  The  old  fellow  winced,  as  he 
nearly  always  did  when  she  gave  him  a  direct 
look. 

"Are  you  all  well?"  Gideon  asked,  lifting  the 
tails  of  his  long  coat  and  seating  himself  in  a 
rocking  chair. 

"First-rate,"  the  Major  answered,  drawing  for 
ward  another  rocker;  and  when  he  had  sat 
down,  he  added:  "Somewhat  of  an  essence  of 
November  in  the  air." 

"Yes,"  Gid  assented;  "felt  it  in  my  joints  be- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       123 

fore  I  got  up  this  morning."  From  his  pocket 
he  took  a  plug  of  tobacco. 

"I  thought  you'd  given  up  chewing,"  said  the 
Alajor.  "Last  time  I  saw  you  I  understood  you 
to  say  that  you  had  thrown  your  tobacco  away." 

"I  did,  John;  but,  I  gad,  I  watched  pretty 
close  where  I  threw  it.  Fellow  over  here  gave 
me  some  stuff  that  he  said  would  cure  me  of 
the  appetite,  and  I  took  it  until  I  was  afraid  it 
would,  and  then  threw  it  away.  I  find  that  when 
a  man  quits  tobacco  he  hasn't  anything  to  look 
forward  to.  I  quit  for  three  days  once,  and  on 
the  third  day,  about  the  time  I  got  up  from  the 
dinner  table,  I  asked  myself:  'Well,  now,  got 
anything  to  come  next?'  And  all  I  could  see 
before  me  was  hours  of  hankering;  and  I  gad, 
I  slapped  a  negro  boy  on  a  horse  and  told  him 
to  gallop  over  to  the  store  and  fetch  me  a  hunk 
of  tobacco.  And  after  I  broke  my  resolution 
I  thought  I'd  have  a  fit  there  in  the  yard  wait 
ing  for  that  boy  to  come  back.  I  don't  believe 
that  it's  right  for  a  man  to  kill  any  appetite 
that  the  Lord  has  given  him.  Of  course  I  don't 
believe  in  the  abuse  of  a  good  thing,  but  it's 
better  to  abuse  it  a  little  sometimes  than  not 
to  have  it  at  all.  If  virtue  consists  in  deaden 
ing  the  nervous  system  to  all  pleasurable  influ 
ences,  why,  you  may  just  mark  my  name  off 
the  list.  There  was  old  man  Haskill.  I  sat  up 
with  him  the  night  after  he  died,  and  one  of 


124       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

the  men  with  me  was  harping  upon  the  great 
life  the  old  fellow  had  lived — never  chewed, 
never  smoked,  never  was  drunk,  never  gambled, 
never  did  anything  except  to  stand  still  and  be 
virtuous — and  I  couldn't  help  but  feel  that  lie 
had  lost  nothing  by  dying.  Haven't  seen  Louise, 
have  you?" 

"No;  but  I  have  about  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  over  there,  whether  she  wants  me  or  not." 

"I  believe  I  would,  John.  We  haven't  long 
to  stay  here,  and  nothing  sweetens  our  sojourn 
like  forgiveness.  I  don't  mean  it  in  sacrilege, 
but  Christ  was  greatest  and  closest  to  His 
Father  when  he  forgave  the  thief.'' 

"That's  true,"  said  the  Major.  "You  may  not 
be  able  to  think  very  coherently,  Gid,  but  some 
times  you  stroll  into  a  discussion  and  bark  the 
shins  of  thought." 

"Easy,  John.  I  am  a  thinker.  My  mind  is 
full  of  pictures  when  your  fancy  is  checkered 
with  red  and  blue  lines.  So  you  are  willing  to 
forgive  her?"  he  added  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,  more  than  willing.  But  she  isn't  ready 
to  be  forgiven.  She  has  some  very  queer  no 
tions,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  where  she 
picked  them  up.  At  times  she's  most  unnatural." 

"Don't  say  that,  John.  I  gad,  sir,  what  right 
has  one  person  to  say  that  another  person  is 
unnatural?  Who  of  us  is  appointed  to  set  up 
the  standard  and  gauge  of  naturalness?  Who  is 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  125 

wholly  consistent?  You  may  say  the  average 
man.  Ah,  but  if  everyone  conformed  to  the 
average  there  would  be  nothing  great  in  the 
world.  There  is  no  greater  bore  than  the  well- 
balanced  man.  He  wears  us  out  with  his  even 
ness.  You  know  what  he's  going  to  say  before 
he  says  it." 

"I  grant  you  all  that;  but  the  well-balanced 
man  made  it  possible  for  the  genius  to  make 
the  world  great.  Genius  is  the  bloom  that  bursts 
out  at  the  top  of  commonplace  humanity." 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  well;  but  just  at  present 
I'd  like  to  have  a  little  liquor.  Be  easy,  though, 
and  don't  let  the  madam  know  what  you're 
after." 

"There's  not  a  drop  in  the  house,  Gid,  but 
there's  a  demijohn  in  the  office.  Let's  step  out 
there." 

"No,  I  believe  not,  John,"  the  old  fellow  re 
plied,  with  a  shudder.  "Can't  you  bring  it  out?" 

"She'll  see  me  if  I  do.  You  must  go  with  me. 
Whisky  that's  not  worth  going  after  is  not  worth 
drinking." 

"You  are  right,  John;  but  you  have  stated 
one  of  those  truths  that  are  never  intended 
to  be  used  except  in  the  absence  of  something 
else  that  might  have  been  said.  Plain  truths 
are  tiresome,  John.  They  never  lend  grace  to 
a  conversation." 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  graces  of  con- 


126  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

versation?  You  are  better  fitted  to  talk  of  the 
disgraces  of  conduct." 

"Slow,  John.  But  I  know  that  a  truth  to  be 
interesting  must  be  whimsical  or  so  blunt  that 
it  jolts." 

"But  didn't  it  jolt  you  when  I  said  that  you 
must  go  into  the  office  after  the  liquor?" 

"Yes;  but  cruelly,  John.  You  must  never 
jolt  cruelly.  I  gad,  I'm  getting  old.  Do  you 
realize  that  we  have  known  each  other  intimately 
for  thirty-five  years?" 

Mrs.  Cranceford  came  out  upon  the  porch. 
"Ah,"  said  old  Gid,  without  changing  his  tone, 
and  as  if  he  were  continuing  a  moral  discourse, 
"thirty-five  years  ago  we  heard  an  old  circuit- 
rider  preach  at  Gum  Springs,  and  while  we 
could  not  subscribe  to  his  fiery  doctrine,  being 
inclined  to  the  broader  and  more  enlightened 
faith  of  the  Episcopal  church,  yet  the  fervor  and 
sincerity  of  his  utterances  made  a  lasting  im 
pression  on  us.  Madam,  I  hear  with  much  pleas 
ure  that  Mr.  Pennington  is  better." 

"Yes,  he  is  feeling  quite  improved,"  she  re 
plied,  merely  glancing  at  him.  "Did  the  Major 
think  enough  of  him  to  tell  you?" 

The  Major  looked  at  Gid,  winked  at  him,  and 
the  old  fellow  believing  that  he  knew  what  was 
wanted,  thus  answered:  "Yes,  ma'am,  but  I 
first  heard  it  from  the  priest.  He  knows  every 
thing,  it  seems.  I  met  him  down  the  road  and 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        127 

had  quite  a  talk  with  him.  By  the  way,  I  read 
a  number  of  years  ago  a  most  edifying  book, 
The  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.'  You  doubt 
less  have  it  in  your  collection,  and  may  I  ask 
you  to  lend  it  to  me?" 

She  had  but  small  faith  in  the  old  fellow's 
sincerity,  and  yet  she  was  pleased  to  see  him 
manifest  an  interest  in  so  godly  a  book.  "Yes, 
and  I  will  get  it  for  you,"  she  answered,  going 
straightway  to  look  for  it;  and  when  she  had 
passed  through  the  door,  Gid  snatched  a  bottle 
out  of  his  pocket  and  held  it  out  toward  the 
Major.  "Here,  John,  hurry  out  there  and  fill 
this  up  while  she's  gone.  Meet  me  around  at  the 
gate.  Quick!" 

"Why,  you  old  rascal,  do  you  suppose  me 
capable  of  complicity  in  such  a  fraud?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  John.  Hurry  up.  I 
could  get  liquor,  plenty  of  it,  but  yours  always 
hits  me  where  I  live.  I'm  sick,  I  tell  you,  and 
hang  it,  I'm  getting  old.  You  don't  seem  to 
realize  that  I'm  an  old  man,  not  long  for  this 
vain  world.  Take  it,  John,  and  hurry  up.  Con 
found  it,  you  won't  be  deceiving  her;  it  would 
be  an  advantage  taken  of  her  unreasonable 
prejudice.  You  never  saw  me  drunk  and  never 
will.  Thunderation,  here  she  comes!" 

He  stuffed  the  bottle  back  into  his  hip  pocket 
and  the  Major  threw  himself  back  with  a  loud 
laugh.  Mrs.  Cranceford,  handing  the  book  to 


128       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

Gid,  cast  a  suspicious  look  at  the  Major,  who 
continued  to  shake.  "Why,  what  has  amused 
you  so?"  she  asked.  And  now  old  Gid  was  nod 
ding  and  chuckling  in  hypocritical  diversion. 
"I  was  just  telling  him  of  the  first  time  I  bor 
rowed  a  copy  of  this  book,"  he  said.  "Walked 
four  miles  to  get  it,  and  when  I  returned,  some 
rascal  had  greased  the  foot-log  and  I  slipped  off 
into  the  creek.  Oh,  it's  very  funny  now,  but  it 
wasn't  then;  had  to  fight  to  keep  from  losing 
the  book  and  came  within  one  of  drowning. 
Well,  I  must  go.  Ma'am,  I'm  a  thousand  times 
obliged  to  you  for  this  storehouse  of  faith,  and 
I  assure  you  that  I'll  take  the  best  of  care  that 
it  shall  come  back  to  you  in  good  condition. 
By  the  way,  John,  is  your  office  locked?  I'll 
step  out  there  and  get  that  paper." 
"Yes,  it's  locked.  I'll  go  with  you." 
"Oh,  never  mind.  Let  me  have  the  key." 
"But  you  can't  find  the  paper." 
"Well,  let  it  go;  I  can  get  it  some  other  time." 
The  Major,  slyly  shaking,  walked  with  him 
to  the  end  of  the  porch.  "You've  played  thun 
der,"  the  old  fellow  whispered.  "I  didn't  think 
it  of  you.  I  gad,  every  chance  you  get  you  hoist 
me  on  your  hip  and  slam  the  life  out  of  me. 
Sick  as  a  dog,  too.  Again,  ma'am,"  he  added, 
turning  about,  "let  me  thank  you  for  this  book. 
And  Major,"  he  said  aloud,  and  "damn  you,"  he 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        129 

breathed,   "I  hope  to  see  you-  over    my  way 
soon." 

He  swore  at  his  horse  as  he  mounted,  and 
throwing  back  a  look  of  reproach,  he  jogged 
off  down  the  road.  But  he  had  not  proceeded 
more  than  a  mile  when  a  boy,  urging  a  gallop 
ing  horse,  overtook  him  and  gave  him  a  bundle ; 
and  therein  he  found  a  bottle  of  whisky,  with 
these  words  written  in  red  ink  and  pasted  on 
the  glass:  "You  are  an  old  fool." 


130       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

All  day  the  clouds  had  been  gathering,  hang 
ing  low  over  the  fields.  At  evening  came  a 
downpour  of  rain,  and  at  night  a  fitful  wind  was 
blowing — one  moment  of  silence  and  then  a 
throb  of  rain  at  the  windows.  In  his  office  the 
Major  sat,  looking  over  the  affairs  of  his  estate. 
It  was  noted  that  he  preferred  a  stormy  night 
thus  to  apply  himself;  the  harshness  of  figures, 
the  unbending  stubbornness  of  a  date,  in  his 
mind  seemed  to  find  a  unity  with  the  sharp 
whistle  of  the  wind  and  the  lashes  of  rain  on  the 
moss-covered  roof.  Before  him,  on  yellowing 
paper,  was  old  Gid's  name,  and  at  it  he  slowly 
shook  his  head,  for  fretfully  he  nursed  the  con 
sciousness  of  having  for  years  been  the  dupe 
of  that  man's  humorous  rascality.  The  planta 
tion  was  productive,  the  old  fellow  had  gathered 
many  a  fine  crop,  and  for  his  failure  to  pay  rent 
there  could  be  no  excuse,  except  the  apologies 
devised  by  his  own  trickish  invention.  Year 
after  year,  in  his  appeals  for  further  indulgence, 
he  had  set  up  the  plea  of  vague  obligations  press 
ing  upon  him,  some  old  debt  that  he  was  striv 
ing  to  wipe  out  and  from  which  he  would  soon 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        131 

be  freed;  and  then,  no  longer  within  the  tight 
ening  grasp  of  merciless  scoundrels,  he  would 
gratefully  devote  the  proceeds  of  his  energies 
to  the  discharge  of  the  obligations  held  so  lightly 
over  him  by  the  noblest  man  on  earth.  Once  he 
returned  from  New  Orleans,  whither  he  had  gone 
to  sell  his  cotton,  with  the  story  that  he  had  been 
knocked  senseless  and  robbed  of  his  wallet,  and 
in  proof  of  this  he  produced  a  newspaper  account 
of  the  midnight  outrage,  and  exhibited  a  wound 
on  the  head,  inflicted  by  the  bludgeon  of  the 
footpad.  And  with  such  drollery  did  he  recite 
this  story  that  the  Major  laughed  at  him,  which 
meant,  of  course,  that  his  tenure  of  the  old 
plantation  was  not  to  be  disturbed.  The  mem 
ory  of  this  rascally  trick  came  back  to  the 
Major  as  he  sat  there  looking  over  his  papers. 
He  recounted  it  all  as  a  reminiscence  of  his  own 
weakness,  and  he  was  firmly  and  almost  angrily 
resolved  that  this  season  the  old  fellow  should 
not  waddle  from  under  his  obligations.  Amuse 
ment  was  well  enough ;  to  laugh  at  a  foible  was 
harmless,  but  constantly  to  be  cheated  was  a 
crime  against  his  wife  and  his  children.  Chil 
dren?  Yes,  for  out  of  no  calculation  for  the 
future  did  he  leave  Louise. 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Crance- 
ford  had  sent  a  negro  boy  with  an  umbrella 
and  a  lantern.  The  night  was  wild,  and  the 
slanting  rain  hit  hard.  Before  he  reached  the 


132       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

house  the  wind  puffed  out  his  lantern,  leaving 
him  to  stumble  through  the  dark. 

As  he  stepped  upon  the  porch  there  was  a 
loud  "halloa"  at  the  gate,  and  just  at  that  mo 
ment  he  heard  his  wife's  voice.  "John,  go  out 
there  and  see  who  that  is,"  she  said. 

He  went  round  to  the  gate.  His  wife  stood 
on  the  porch  waiting  for  him.  Presently  he  came 
back,  walking  rapidly. 

"Who  is  it,  dear?" 

"A  negro  man.  Margaret,  we  must  go  at  once 
to  Louise.  Pennington  is  dying." 

With  an  inarticulate  note  of  astonishment  she 
fled  to  her  room,  to  prepare  herself  for  the  jour 
ney,  and  the  Major  loudly  commanded  the  car 
riage  to  be  brought  out. 

Lanterns  flashed  across  the  yard,  under  the 
streaming  trees,  and  flickered  in  the  gale  that 
howled  about  the  barn. 

Pale,  impatient,  and  wrapped  in  a  waterproof, 
Mrs. .  Cranceford  stood  at  the  front  doorway. 
The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  gate.  "Are  you 
ready?"  the  Major  asked,  speaking  from  the 
darkness  in  the  midst  of  the  rain. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  stepping  out  and  closing 
the  door. 
•  "Where  is  Tom?"  the  Major  inquired. 

"He  hasn't  come  home." 

"He  ought  to  go.    I  wonder  where  he  can  be." 

"He  could  be  most  any  place,"  she  answered; 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       133 

and  as  she  stepped  under  the  umbrella  to  walk 
with  him  to  the  gate,  she  added:  "But  I  think 
he  is  at  Wash  Sanders'  house." 

He  helped  her  into  the  carriage,  took  a  seat 
beside  her,  and  shut  the  door  with  a  slam.  "As 
fast  as  you  can!"  he  shouted  to  the  driver.  They 
sat  a  long  time  in  silence,  listening  to  the  rain 
and  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  sloshing  in  the  wet 
sand.  The  carriage  stopped. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"De  bayou,  sah." 

"Drive  on." 

"De  bridge  is  full  o'  holes." 

"Drive  through." 

"De  water's  mighty  high." 

"Drive  through." 

Down  they  went  with  a  splash.  The  carriage 
swayed,  was  lifted,  was  swung  round — the  horses 
lunged;  one  of  the  doors  was  burst  open  and 
the  water  poured  in.  Mrs.  Cranceford  clung  to 
the  Major,  but  she  uttered  not  a  word.  Up  the 
slippery  bank  the  horses  strained.  One  of  them 
fell,  but  he  was  up  in  a  moment.  Firmer  footing 
was  gained,  and  the  road  was  reached.  Now 
they  were  in  a  lane.  The  Major  struck  a  match 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nearly  two 
o'clock.  Across  the  fields  came  a  light — from 
Louise's  window. 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  gate. 

"That  you,  Major?"  a  voice  asked. 


134       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Yes.     Why,  how  did  you  get  here,  Jim?" 

"Tore  down  the  fences  and  rode  across  the 
fields." 

"How  is  he?"  the  Major  asked,  helping  his 
wife  to  the  ground. 

"I  haven't  been  in — been  walking  up  and  down 
out  here.  Thought  I'd  wait  for  you." 

At  the  entrance  of  the  passageway  Louise  met 
them.  She  kissed  her  mother,  saying  not  a 
word.  The  Major  held  out  his  arms  toward  her. 
She  pretended  not  to  notice  this  complete  sur 
render;  she  took  his  hand  and  turned  her  face 
from  him. 

"My  poor  little  girl,  I " 

She  dropped  his  hand,  opened  the  door  of  a 
room  opposite  the  dying  man's  chamber  and 
said:  "Step  in  here,  please.  Mother,  you  and 
Jim  may  come  with  me." 

The  old  man  broke  down.  "My  precious 
child,  God  knows " 

"Will  you  please  step  in  here?  I  will  come 

with  you.  Mother,  you  and  Jim "  She 

pointed  to  the  door  of  her  husband's  room.  In 
sorrowful  obedience  the  Major  bowed  his  head 
and  crossed  the  threshold.  In  the  room  was  a 
fire  and  on  the  mantel-piece  a  lamp  was  burn 
ing. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said. 

"Louise,  I  have  not  deserved"  this." 

"Take  the  rocking  chair,  please." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        135 

He  stood  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  back 
of  the  chair.  "Why  do  you  hold  me  off  with 
such  stubbornness?  Why  continue  to  be  so  un 
natural  a  child,  so  incomprehensible  a  woman?" 
Even  now  he  did  not  forget  to  measure  his  sen 
tences,  but  with  the  depth  of  his  earnestness  his 
voice  was  wavering.  "You  know " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  broke  in,  looking  full  at 
him,  and  her  face  smote  him  with  pity.  "But 
this  is  no  time  for  explanations."  She  turned 
toward  the  door. 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  me?"  he  asked,  fol 
lowing  her. 

"Yes.  Mother  will  tell  you  all  that  is  to  be 
told." 

She  went  out  and  closed  the  door.  The  Major 
walked  softly  up  and  down  the  room,  listen 
ing,  but  he  heard  nothing  save  the  creaking 
of  the  house  and  the  moaning  of  the  wind  in 
the  old  plum  thicket.  A  long  time  passed,  and 
then  Mrs.  Cranceford  entered.  Her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears.  "It  is  all  over,"  she  said.  At 
the  moment  the  Major  made  no  reply.  He  led 
her  to  a  chair,  and  when  she  had  sat  down, 
looking  up  at  him,  he  leaned  over  her  and  said: 
"Margaret,  I  know  you  can't  help  appreciating 
my  position;  and  I  feel  that  I  am  the  keenest 
sufferer  under  this  roof,  for  to  me  all  conso 
lation  is  denied.  Now,  what  is  expected  of  me? 
I  am  going  to  make  no  more  protests — I  am 


136  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

going  to  do  as  I  am  instructed.  What  is  expect 
ed  of  me?" 

"Go  home,  dear,  and  wait  until  I  come,"  she 
answered. 

"But  doesn't  that  seem  hard,  Margaret?" 

"Yes;  but  it  is  her  wish  and  we  must  not 
oppose  it" 

"I  will  do  as  you  say,"  he  replied,  and  kissing 
her  he  added:  "If  you  can,  make  her  feel  that 
I  love  her.  Tell  her  that  I  acknowledge  all  the 
wrong."  He  stepped,  out  into  the  passage,  but 
he  came  back  to  the  door,  and  standing  there  for 
a  moment,  he  said:  "Make  her  feel  that  I  love 
her." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        137 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Pennington  was  buried  in  the  yard  of  the 
church  wherein  he  had  taught  school.  No  de 
tail  of  the  arrangements  was  submitted  to  the 
Major.  For  a  time  he  held  out  that  the  family 
burial  ground  was  the  proper  place  for  the  inter 
ment,  under  the  trees  where  his  father  and  his 
mother  were  laid  to  rest,  but  Louise  stood  in 
strong  opposition  to  this  plan,  even  though  ap 
pearances  called  for  its  adoption.  So,  after  this, 
the  Major  offered  no  suggestion. 

At  the  grave  there  was  no  hysterical  grief. 
The  day  was  bleak  and  the  services  were 
short.  When  all  had  been  done,  the  Major 
gently  put  his  arm  about  his  daughter  and  said 
that  she  must  go  home  with  him. 

"Not  now,"  she  replied;  and  she  did  not  look 
up  at  him.  "But  please  don't  worry  over  me; 
don't  feel  that  you  have  to  do  something.  Moth 
er  is  going  with  me,  and  after  that  you  may  know 
what  I  intend  to  do.  Please  don't  urge  me. 
Let  me  have  my  way  just  a  little  longer." 

He  stepped  back  from  her  and  Mrs.  Crance- 
ford  took  her  arm  and  led  her  away.  The  Major 
slowly  followed  them.  He  felt  the  inquisitive 
look  of  a  neighbor,  and  his  shoulders  stiffened. 


138  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

In  a  buggy  the  mother  and  the  daughter  had 
followed  the  hearse;  the  Major,  Tom  and  big 
Jim  Taylor  were  driven  in  the  family  carriage. 
Louise  was  to  go  back  to  the  desolate  house. 
The  Major  stoutly  opposed  this,  pleaded  with 
her  after  she  had  seated  herself  in  the  buggy, 
clutched  the  spoke  of  a  muddy  wheel  as  if  he 
would  hold  her  back.  She  took  the  lines  from 
her  mother,  tossed  them  upon  the  horse,  folded 
her  arms,  and  in  silence  waited. 

"John,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Cranceford,  "let  us 
drive  on.  There,  please  don't  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  those  people.  You  know  what  gossips 
they  are." 

The  Major  spoke  to  Louise.  "Wilt  you  answer 
me  one  question?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Is  it  your  intention  to  live  alone  in  that 
wretched  house?" 

"No,  sir;    but  I  must  go  there  to  think." 

The  Major  stepped  back,  and  with  a  hand 
kerchief  wiped  his  muddy  hand.  "Margaret,  I 
leave  her  with  you,"  he  said. 

Shortly  after  the  Major  reached  home  his  wife 
arrived,  but  Louise  was  not  with  her.  "I  could 
do  nothing,"  she  said.  "When  we  drove  up  to 
the  gate  she  jumped  out  and  declared  that  I  must 
come  on  home.  I  pleaded  with  her,  but  she 
wouldn't  yield.  Two  old  women  were  in  the 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       139 

house  and  she  said  that  they  were  company 
enough ;  she  wanted  to  think  and  they  would  not 
distract  her  thoughts.  I  told  her  that  if  she 
would  agree  to  let  me  stay  I  would  not  say  a 
word,  but  she  shook  her  head.  'You  shall  hear 
from  me  to-morrow/  were  her  words,  'but  you 
must  leave  me  to  myself  to-night.  It  is  of  no  use 
to  urge  me.'  I  saw  that  it  wasn't,  and  I  drove 
away.  I  declare  I  can't  make  her  out." 

"Most  unreasonable  creature  I  ever  saw,"  the 
Major  replied,  uneasily  walking  up  and  down 
the  room.  "She  has  made  me  contemptible  in 
the  eyes  of  this  neighborhood,  and  now  appears 
determined  to  disgrace  herself." 

"Don't  say  that,  John." 

"Why  not?    It's  a  fact." 

"It  is  not  a  fact.  I  am  not  afraid  of  a  daugh 
ter  of  mine  disgracing  herself.  It's  only  bad 
blood  that  disgraces  itself." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  about  that  when  women 
throughout  the  entire  country  are  striving  to 
be  unnatural.  By  the  blood " 

"John." 

He  wheeled  about  and  looked  at  her.  "But 
I  ask  you  if  it  isn't  enough  to  make  a  saint 
pull  out  his  hair?  Simply  opposed  her  mar 
riage,  used  legitimate  argument,  and  afterward 
begged  like  a  dog.  Isn't  it  enough  to  make  me 
spurn  the  restraints  of  the  church  and  take  up 
the  language  of  the  mud-clerk?" 


140  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"No,  dear;  nothing  should  prompt  you  to  do 
that.  You  have  a  soul  to  be  saved." 

"But  is  it  necessary  that  my  life  should  be 
tortured  out  of  me  in  order  that  my  soul  may  be 
saved?  I  don't  care  to  pay  such  a  price.  Is 
it  put  down  that  I  must  be  a  second  Job?  Is 
a  boil  the  sign  of  salvation?" 

"For  goodness'  sake  don't  talk  that  way,"  she 
pleaded,  but  she  had  to  turn  her  face  away  to 
hide  her  smile  from  him. 

"But  I've  got  to  talk  some  way.  Just  reflect 
on  her  treatment  of  me  and  how  I  have  hum 
bled  myself  and  whined  at  her  feet.  And  I  ask 
what  may  we  not  expect  of  such  a  creature? 
Is  it  that  she  wants  to  be  different  from  anyone 
else?  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing:  The  woman 
who  seeks  to  be  strongly  individualized  may 
attain  her  aim,  but  it  leads  to  a  sacrifice  of  her 
modesty.  I  say  she  is  in  danger  of  disgracing 
herself." 

Mrs.  Cranceford  shook  her  head.  "You  wait 
and  we  shall  see.  No  member  of  my  family 
was  ever  disgraced.  I  may  be  distressed  at  her 
peculiarities,  at  times,  but  I  shall  never  be  afraid 
for  her  conduct." 

Early  the  next  morning  a  negro  brought  a 
letter  from  Louise.  Mrs.  Cranceford  hastened 
to  the  office  to  read  it  to  the  Major.  It  appeared 
to  have  been  written  with  care  and  thus  was  it 
worded : 


"My Dear  Mother:— I 
am  thankful  that  I  am 
not  to  look  upon  the  sur 
prise  and  sorrow  you 
must  feel  in  reading  this.— 
letter.  I  hardly  know> 
how  to  rake  together  and 
assort  what  I  desire  to 
say,  but  I  will  do  the  best 
I  can,  and  if  you  fail  to 
understand  me,  do  not 
charge  it  against  yourself,  but  list  it  with  my 
other  faults.  What  I  have  recently  gone  through 
with  is  quite  enough  to  unstring  the  nerves 
of  a  stronger  woman  than  I  am,  and  what  must 
be  my  condition?  Worn  out  and  weary  of  any 
life  that  I  could  conceive  of  here — don't  you 
see  how  I  am  floundering  about?  But  give  me 
time  and  in  all  honesty  you  shall  know  the  true 
state  of  my  mind.  Many  a  time  father  has  said 
that  he  did  not  understand  me,  and  more  than 
once  you  have  charged  me  with  being  strange. 
But  I  am  sure  that  I  have  never  tried  to  be  mys 
terious.  I  have  had  thoughts  that  would  not 
have  appeared  sane,  had  I  written  them,  but  I 
have  never  been  foolishly  romantic,  although  my 
education  has  been  far  from  practical.  The  first 
thing  I  remember  was  a  disappointment,  and 
that  was  not  being  a  boy.  It  may  be  a  vanity, 
but  at  that  early  age  I  seemed  to  recognize  the 
little  privileges  given  to  a  boy  and  denied  a 

HI 


£ 


_      A   NEGRO   BROUGHT   A 
LETTER  FROM  LOUISE. 


142 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


girl.  But  as  I  grew  older  I  was  shocked  by  the 
roughness  and  cruelty  of  boys,  and  then  I  was 
pleased  to  reflect  that  I  was  of  gentler  mold. 
At  some  time  of  life  I  suppose  we  are  all  enig 
mas  unto  ourselves;  the  mystery  of  being,  the 
ability  to  move,  and  the  marvelous  something 
we  call  emotion,  startles  us  and  drives  us  into  a 
moody  and  speculative  silence.  I  give  this  in 
explanation  of  my  earlier  strangeness.  I  could 
always  talk  readily,  but  never,  not  even  to  you, 
could  I  tell  completely  what  I  thought.  Most 
young  people  are  warned  against  the  trash  that 
finds  its  way — no  one  appears  to  know  how — 
into  the  library  of  the  home,  but  I  remember 
to  have  been  taken  to  task  for  reading  mannish 
books.  And  in  some  measure  I  heeded  the  lec 
ture  thus  delivered,  but  it  is  to  mannish  books 
that  I  owe  my  semblance  of  common  sense." 

"What  is  she  trying  to  get  at?"  the  Major 
broke  in.  "Have  you  read  it?  If  you  have,  tell 
me  what  she  says." 

"I  am  reading  it  now,"  his  wife  replied;  and 
thus  she  continued: 

"The  strongest  emotion  of  my  life  has  been 
pity,  and  you  know  that  I  never  could  keep  a 
doll  nor  a  trinket  if  a  strong  appeal  was  made  for 
it.  I  grew  up  to  know  that  this  was  a  weakness 
rather  than  a  virtue,  but  never  has  my 
judgment  been  strong  enough  to  prevail 


"ONCE  SHE  PICTURED  HELL.  FOB  ME." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        143 

against  it.  And  this  leads  me  to  speak  of  my 
marriage.  That  was  the  result  of  pity  and  fear. 
Let  me  see  if  I  can  make  you  understand  me. 
That  poor  man's  condition  smote  my  heart  as 
never  before  had  it  been  smitten.  And  when  he 
made  his  appeal  to  me,  hollow-eyed  and  cough 
ing,  I  trembled,  for  I  knew  that  my  nature  would 
prompt  me  to  yield,  although  I  might  fully  esti 
mate  the  injustice  to  myself.  So  my  judgment 
fought  with  my  sense  of  pity,  and  in  the  end, 
perhaps,  might  have  conquered  it,  but  for  the 
element  of  fear  which  was  then  introduced.  The 
question  of  his  soul  was  brought  forward,  and 
he  swore  that  I  would  send  it  to  heaven  or 
to  hell.  In  the  light  of  what  I  have  read,  and  in 
the  recollection  of  what  I  have  often  heard  father 
say  in  his  arguments  with  preachers,  perhaps  I 
should  have  been  strong  enough  to  scout  the 
idea  of  a  literal  torment,  but  I  could  not.  You 
remember  old  Aunt  Betsy  Taylor,  Jim's  black 
mammy.  When  I  was  very  young  she  was  still 
living  on  the  place,  and  was  to  me  a  curiosity, 
the  last  of  her  race,  I  was  told.  I  did  not  know 
what  this  meant,  but  it  gave  her  words  great 
weight.  Once  she  pictured  hell  for  me,  the  roar 
ing  furnace,  the  writhing  of  the  damned,  and  no 
reason  and  no  reading  has  ever  served  to  clear 
my  mind  of  her  awful  painting.  With  her  as 
the  advocate  I  could  hear  the  groans  of  lost 
souls;  and  in  my  childish  way  I  believed  that  the 


144  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

old  woman  was  inspired  to  spread  the  terrors 
of  perdition;  nor  has  education  and  the  little  I 
have  seen  of  society,  wholly  changed  this  belief. 
So  when  Mr.  Pennington  swore  to  me  that  if  I 
refused  to  marry  him  he  would  die  blaspheming 
the  name  of  God,  my  judgment  tottered  and  fell. 
I  sit  here  now,  looking  at  the  bed  whereon  he 
died.  You  saw  him  breathe  his  last,  saw  his  smile 
of  peace  and  hope.  That  smile  was  my  reward. 
For  it  I  had  wrung  the  heart  of  my  father  and 
wiped  my  feet  upon  his  pride.  But  I  had  sent 
a  soul  above.  I  have  set  myself  to  the  task  of 
perfect  frankness,  and  I  must  tell  you  that  in 
my  heart  there  was  not  the  semblance  of  love  for 
him,  love  as  you  know  it ;  there  was  only  pity  and 
I  can  say  that  pity  is  not  akin  to  love.  Yes,  I 
sold  myself,  not  as  many  a  woman  has,  not  as  I 
would  have  been  praised  and  flattered  for  doing 
— not  for  money,  but  to  save  a  soul.  This  is 
written  at  night,  with  a  still  clock  above  me,  the 
hands  recording  the  hour  and  the  minute  of  his 
death,  and  the  light  of  the  sun  may  fade  my 
words  and  make  them  ghastly,  but  I  am  reveal 
ing,  to  my  mother,  my  inner  self." 

Mrs.  Cranceford  paused  to  wipe  her  eyes,  and 
the  Major,  who  had  been  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  now  stood  looking  through  the  win 
dow  at  the  sweep  of  yellow  river,  far  away. 

"But  does  she  say  when  she  is  coming  home?" 
he  asked  without  turning  his  head.  "Read  on, 
please." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  115 

The  sheets  were  disarranged  and  it  was  some 
time  before  she  obeyed.  "Read  on,  please,"  he 
repeated,  and  he  moved  from  the  window  and 
stood  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  back  of  a 
chair.  Mrs.  Cranceford  read  on: 

"There  is  one  misfortune  of  mine  that  has  al 
ways  been  apparent  to  you  and  that  is  my  pain 
ful  sensitiveness.  It  was,  however,  not  looked 
upon  as  a  misfortune,  but  rather  as  a  fault 
which  at  will  I  might  correct,  but  I  could  no 
more  have  obviated  it  than  I  could  have  changed 
my  entire  nature.  When  father  charged  me  with 
ingratitude  I  realized  the  justice  of  the  rebuke 
(from  his  point  of  view),  while  feeling  on  my  side 
the  injustice  of  the  imputation,  for  I  was  not  un 
grateful,  but  simply  in  a  desperate  state  of  mind. 
I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  making  myself  clear. 
But  let  me  affirm  that  I  do  not  lose  sight  of  the 
debt  I  owe  him,  the  debt  of  gallantry.  I  had  al 
ways  admired  him  for  his  bravery,  and  hundreds 
of  times  have  I  foolishly  day-dreamed  of  per 
forming  a  life-saving  office  for  him.  But  the 
manner — and  pardon  me  for  saying  it — the  ar 
rogance  which  he  assumed  over  me,  wounded 
me,  and  the  wound  is  still  slowly  bleeding.  But 
in  time  it  will  heal,  and  when  it  does  I  will  go  to 
him,  but  now  I  cannot." 

"But  she  must  come  to  me  or  let  me  go  to  her!" 
the  Major  broke  in.  "I  confess  that  I  didn't 

understand  her.     Why,  there  is  heroism  in  her 
10 


146        AN  ARKANSAS. PLANTER. 

composition.  Go  ahead,  Margaret.  She's  got 
more  sense  than  all  of  us.  Go  ahead." 

Mrs.  Cranceford  continued:  "I  can  conceive 
of  nothing  more  useless  than  my  life  at  home 
would  be.  The  truth  is,  I  must  do  something, 
see  something,  feel  the  throb  rather  than  the  con 
tinuous  pressure  of  life.  Thousands  of  women 
are  making  their  way  in  the  world.  Why  should 
not  I  ?  And  it  is  not  that  I  mean  wholly  to  de 
sert  you  or  to  love  you  less,  but  I  must  go  away, 
and  before  this  letter  reaches  you  I  shall  be  on 
my  journey " 

Mrs.  Cranceford's  trembling  hands  let  the  pa 
per  fall.  The  Major  grabbed  it  up,  fumbled 
with  it,  put  it  upon  the  desk  and  sat  down.  In 
silence  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  their  vision 
was  not  clear.  "Read  on,"  he  said.  "We  can 
stand  anything  now." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  obeyed  him:  "Shall 
be  on  my  journey.  I  have  in  mind  a  certain 
place,  but  what  place  it  is  I  must  not  tell  you. 
If  I  succeed  I  shall  let  you  know,  and  if  I  fail — 
but  I  will  base  nothing  upon  the  probability  of 
failure.  I  know  that  you  will  look  upon  this 
almost  as  an  act  of  insanity,  and  carrying  out  my 
resolve  to  be  frank,  I  must  say  that  I  do  not 
know  but  that  it  is.  It  is,  though,  the  only 
course  that  promises  relief  and  therefore  I  must 
take  it.  You  must  not  charge  me  with  a  lack 
of  love  for  you  and  never  must  you  lose  faith  in 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        147 

me.  It  is  singular  that  after  all  these  years,  after 
all  our  confidences,  I  should  choose  a  pen  where 
with  to  make  myself  known  to  you,  and  you  may 
call  me  a  most  unnatural  daughter,  but  you 
must  charge  my  unnaturalness  to  nature,  and 
nothing  that  nature  does  should  appear  unnat 
ural  when  once  we  have  come  to  understand  it. 
I  have  money  enough  to  last  me  until  I  can  se 
cure  employment.  I  hope  that  I  know  what 
sort  of  employment  it  may  be,  but  as  there  is 
in  my  hope  a  fear  of  failure,  I  will  not  tell  you. 
My  training  has  not  been  systematic  enough  to 
enable  me  to  be  a  school  teacher,  for  I  know  a 
little  of  many  things,  but  am  thorough  in  noth 
ing.  But  in  some  other  line  the  manish  books 
may  help  me.  In  reading  this  over  I  realize  that 
I  am  vain  and  affected.  But  put  it  down  as  an 
other  frankness.  God  bless  you  and  good-bye." 

"I  told  you  she  would  disgrace  herself,"  the 
Major  exclaimed,  slapping  his  hand  upon  the 
desk. 

"She  has  done  nothing  of  the  sort,"  his  wife 
replied,  stepping  out  and  closing  the  door. 


148  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  neighbors  were  curious  to  know  why 
Louise  had  left  home  and  whither  she  was  gone. 
Day  and  night  they  came  to  ask  questions,  and 
though  told  that  she  was  visiting  relatives  in 
Kentucky,  they  departed  suspecting  that  some 
thing  must  be  wrong.  The  gossips  were  more 
or  less  busy,  and  Jim  Taylor  snatched  another 
idler  off  the  fence  and  trounced  him  in  the  sand. 

Weeks  passed  and  no  letter  came  from  Louise. 
The  Major  worried  over  her  until  at  last  he  for 
bade  the  mention  of  her  name.  During  the  day 
Mrs.  Cranceford  was  calm  and  brave,  but  many 
a  time  in  the  night  the  Major  heard  her  crying. 
Every  Sunday  afternoon  Jim  Taylor's  tread  was 
heard  on  the  porch.  To  the  Major  he  talked  of 
various  things,  of  the  cotton  which  was  nearly 
all  picked,  of  the  weakening  or  strengthening 
tendency  of  the  market,  but  when  alone  with 
Mrs.  Cranceford  his  talk  began  and  ended  with 
Louise.  But  in  this  he  observed  the  necessity 
for  great  care,  lest  the  Major  might  hear  him, 
and  he  chose  occasions  when  the  old  gentleman 
was  in  his  office  or  when  with  Gid  he  strolled 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  149 

down  into  the  woods.  In  the  broad  parlor,  in  the 
log  part  of  the  house,  Jim  and  Mrs.  Cranceford 
would  sit,  hours  at  a  time;  and  never  did  she 
show  an  impatience  of  his  long  lapses  of  silence 
nor  of  his  monotonous  professions  of  faith  in  the 
run-away.  And  upon  taking  his  leave  he  would 
never  fail  to  say :  "I  believe  we'll  hear  from  her 
to-morrow;  I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

In  the  midst  of  the  worry  that  followed 
the  young  woman's  departure,  there  had  been 
but  one  mention  of  the  young  man's  affair  with 
the  niece  of  Wash  Sanders.  Mrs.  Cranceford 
had  spoken  to  him,  not  directly,  but  with  gentle 
allusion,  and  he  had  replied  with  an  angry  de 
nunciation  of  such  meddlesomeness.  "I'm  not 
going  to  marry  a  dying  woman,"  he  declared; 
"and  I'm.  not  going  to  take  up  any  faded  ninny 
that  you  and  father  may  pick  out.  I'm  going  to 
please  myself,  and  when  you  decide  that  I 
mustn't,  just  say  the  word  and  I'll  hull  out.  And 
I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  about  crackers  or 
white  trash,  either.  That's  me." 

His  mother  must  have  agreed  that  it  was,  for 
the  weeks  went  by  and  not  again  did  she  drop 
a  hint  of  her  anxiety. 

One  rainy  afternoon  the  Major  and  old  Gid 
were  sitting  on  a  tool-box  under  the  barn  shed, 
when  Father  Brennon  came  riding  down  the 
road. 

"As  they  say  over  the  creek,  light  and  look  at 
your  saddle!"  the  Major  shouted. 


150        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

With  a  nod  and  a  smile  the  priest  rode  through 
the  gate,  dismounted,  gave  his  horse  over  to  a 
negro  who,  in  answer  to  a  shout,  had  come  for 
ward  from  some  mysterious  precinct  of  the  barn 
yard,  shook  hands  with  the  Major  and  Gid,  and 
gracefully  declining  a  seat  on  the  tool-box,  rolled 
a  barrel  from  against  the  wall  and  upon  it  seated 
himself. 

"More  in  accordance  with  the  life  of  a  priest," 
he  said,  tapping  the  barrel  with  his  knuckles. 
"It  is  rolling." 

"Ah,"  replied  the  Major,  "and  a  barrel  may 
also  typify  the  reckless  layman.  It  is  often  full." 

The  priest  gave  to  this  remark  the  approval  of 
a  courteous  laugh.  Even  though  he  might  stand 
in  a  slippery  place,  how  well  he  knew  his  ground. 
To  call  forth  a  weak  joke  and  then  to  commend 
it  with  his  merriment — how  delightful  a  piece 
of  flattery.  And  it  can,  in  truth,  be  said  that  in 
his  heart  he  was  sincere.  To  be  pleasing  was  to 
him  an  art,  and  this  art  was  his  second  nature. 

"Mr.  Brennon,"  said  the  Major  (and  under  no 
compulsion  would  he  have  said  father),  I  have 
thought  a  great  deal  of  the  argument  we  had 
some  time  ago;  and  I  have  wondered,  sir,  that 
in  coming  to  this  community  to  proselyte  the 
negro,  you  did  not  observe  the  secrecy  with 
which  the  affairs  of  your  church  are  usually  con 
ducted.  But  understand,  please,  that  I  do  not 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


151 


mean  to  reflect  upon  the  methods  of  your  creed, 
but  simply  wonder  that  you  have  not  followed 
a  recognized  precedent." 

The  priest  had  taken  hold  of  the  chine  at 
each  end  of  the  barrel  and  was  slowly  rolling 
himself  backward  and  forward.  "I  fail  to  see 
why  any  secrecy  should  be  observed  in  my 
work,"  he  replied.  'The  Catholic  church  has 
never  made  a  secret  of  doing  good — for  we  be 
lieve  in  the  potency  of  example.  If  we  elevate 
the  moral  condition  of  one  man,  it  is  well  that 
another  man  should  know  it.  The  Methodist 
holds  his  revival  and  implores  the  sinner  to  come 
forward  and  kneel  at  the  altar. 
And  as  it  were,  I  am  holding 
a  revival — I  am  persuading  the 
negro  and  the  white  man  as 
well  to  kneel  under  the  cross. 
Should  there  be  any  secrecy 
in  such  a  work?" 

"Well,  no,  not  when 
you  put  it  that  way. 
But  you  know  that  we 
look  upon  the  Catholic 
religion  as  a  foreign  re 
ligion." 

"It  was  here  first," 
the  priest  replied,  grave 
ly  smiling.  "It  discov 
ered  this  country." 


"II  DISCOVERED  THIS  COUNTRY." 


152  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"We  must  grant  that,"  the  Major  rejoined, 
"but  still  I  insist  that  the  native  born  American 
regards  it  as  a  foreign  institution,  foreign  to  his 
nature,  to  his  sense  of  liberty,  if  not  to  his  soul." 

"My  dear  Major,  Christ  is  foreign  to  no  soil. 
The  earth  is  His  Father's  foot-stool.  The  soul 
of  man  is  the  abiding  place  of  the  love  of  the 
Saviour,  and  no  heart  is  out-landish.  What 
you  may  call  liberty  is  an  education,  but  the  soul 
as  God's  province  is  not  made  so  by  training,  but 
came  with  the  first  twinkling  of  light,  of  reason, 
the  dawn  of  time." 

"That's  about  as  straight  as  any  man  can  give 
it,"  old  Gid  joined  in.  "But  what  puzzles  me  is 
why  God  is  more  at  home  in  one  man's  heart 
than  in  another.  He  fills  some  hearts  with  love 
and  denies  it  to  others;  and  the  heart  that  has 
been  denied  is  cursed,  through  no  fault  of  its 
own — simply  because  it  has  not  received — while 
the  other  heart  is  blessed.  I  reckon  the  safest 
plan  is  to  conclude  that  we  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  I  don't,  and  that  settles  it  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  I  can't  accept  man's  opinion, 
for  man  doesn't  know  any  more  about  it  than  I 
do;  so  I  say  to  myself,  'Gideon  Batts,  eat,  drink 
and  be  merry,  for  the  first  thing  you  know  they 
will  come  along  and  lay  you  out  where  the  worm 
is  whetting  his  appetite.'  You  have  raked  up 
quite  a  passle  of  negroes,  haven't  you,  colonel?" 

The  priest  looked  at  him,  but  not  resentfully. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       153 

"My  work  has  not  been  without  a  fair  measure 
of  success,"  he  answered,  now  sitting  upright 
and  motionless.  "You  must  have  noticed  that 
we  are  building  quite  a  large  church." 

"So  I  see,"  said  the  Major.  "And  you  still 
believe  that  you  are  going  to  preserve  the  ne 
gro's  body  as  well  as  save  his  soul." 

"We  are  going  to  save  his  soul,  and  a  soul  that 
is  to  be  saved  serves  to  protect  its  habitation." 

"But  you  foresee  a  race  war?" 

"I  foresee  racial  troubles,  which  in  time  may 
result  in  a  war  of  extermination." 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Brennon,"  the  Major 
replied.  "As  time  passes  it  will  become  more 
and  more  clear  that  the  whites  and  the  negroes 
cannot  live  together.  Their  interests  may  be 
identical,  but  they  are  of  a  different  order  and 
can  never  agree.  And  now  let  us  face  the  truth. 
What  sowed  the  seeds  of  this  coming  strife? 
Emancipation?  No,  enfranchisement.  The 
other  day  Mr.  Low  gave  me  a  copy  of  the  Lon 
don  Spectator,  calling  my  attention  to  a  thought 
ful  paper  on  this  very  subject.  It  deeply  impressed 
me,  so  much  so  that  I  read  parts  of  it  a  number 
of  times.  Let  me  see  if  I  can  recall  one  observa 
tion  that  struck  me.  Yes,  and  it  is  this:  'We 
want  a  principle  on  which  republicans  can  work 
and  we  believe  that  the  one  which  would  be  the 
most  fruitful  is  that  the  black  people  should  be 
declared  to  be  foreign  immigrants,  guests  of  the 


154        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

state,  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  every  law  and 
every  privilege,  education,  for  example,  but  de 
barred  from  political  power  and  from  sitting  on 
juries,  which  latter,  indeed,  in  mixed  cases,  ought 
to  be  superseded  by  properly  qualified  magis 
trates  and  judges.'  The  paper  goes  on  to  show 
that  this  would  not  be  oppressive,  and  that  the 
blacks  would  be  in  the  position  of  a  majority 
of  Englishmen  prior  to  1832,  a  position  compati 
ble  with  much  happiness.  But  the  trouble  is  we 
have  gone  too  far  to  retrace  our  steps.  It  was 
easy  enough  to  grant  suffrage  to  the  negro,  but 
to  take  it  away  would  be  a  difficult  matter.  So 
what  are  we  to  do?  To  let  the  negro  exercise 
the  full  and  unrestrained  measure  of  his  suf 
frage,  would,  in  some  communities,  reduce  the 
white  man  to  the  position  of  political  nonentity. 
And  no  law,  no  cry  about  the  rights  of  a  down 
trodden  race,  no  sentiment  expressed  abroad, 
could  force  the  white  man  to  submit  quietly  to 
this  degradation.  Upon  the  negro's  head  the 
poetry  of  New  England  has  placed  a  wreath  of 
sentiment.  No  poet  has  placed  a  wreath  upon 
the  brow  of  the  California  Chinaman,  nor  upon 
the  head  of  any  foreign  element  in  any  of  the 
northern  states.  Then  why  this  partiality?  Is 
the  negro  so  gentle  that  he  must  always  be  de 
fended,  and  is  the  white  man  of  the  south  so 
hard  of  heart  that  he  must  always  be  con 
demned?" 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  155 

"What  you  say  is  perfectly  clear  to  me,"  the 
priest  replied,  "and  it  is  natural  that  you  should 
defend  your  position." 

"It  is  the  only  position  and  the  only  course  left 
to  a  thinking  and  a  self-respecting  white  man," 
the  Major  rejoined. 

"Yes,  I  will  agree  to  that,  too." 

"Ah,  and  that's  the  trouble,  Mr.  Brennon. 
You  agree  while  you  oppose." 

"My  dear  Major,  I  am  not  here  to  oppose,  nor 
to  destroy,  but  to  save  fragments  when  the  hour 
of  destruction  shall  have  come." 

"But  if  your  church  believes  that  it  can  save 
fragments  why  doesn't  it  exert  itself  to  save  the 
whole?" 

"Major,  salvation  comes  of  persuasion  and  per 
suasion  is  slow." 

"Yes,  and  let  me  tell  you  that  your  form  of  re 
ligion  will  never  become  popular  among  the 
negroes.  The  negro  is  emotional,  and  to  make 
a  display  of  his  religious  agitation  is  too  great  a 
luxury  to  be  given  up.  Your  creed  entails  too 
much  belief  and  too  little  excitement;  upon  the 
layman  it  doesn't  confer  sufficient  importance. 
The  negro  must  shout  and  hug.  The  quiet 
mysticism  of  the  divine  spirit  does  not  satisfy 
him.  He  wants  to  be  exorcised;  he  wants  what 
is  known  as  the  mourners'-bench  jerks.  If  his 
brother  loves  him  he  doesn't  want  a  quiet  assur 
ance  of  that  fact,  conveyed  by  a  year  of  conduct; 


156        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

he  demands  a  noisy  proof,  the  impulse  of  a  mo 
ment  of  joy." 

With  a  slow  shake  of  his  head  old  Gid  con 
firmed  this  view,  and  the  priest  looked  on,  grave 
ly  smiling.  "You  have  now  touched  upon  a  mis 
taken  phase  of  the  negro's  character,"  said  he. 
"And  to  make  my  point  clear,  I  must  speak 
plainly  with  regard  to  the  appearance  of  our 
form  of  worship.  I  must  present  it  as  it  im 
presses  the  ignorant  and  the  superstitious.  In 
doing  so  I  make  myself  appear  almost  irrever 
ent,  but  in  no  other  way  can  I  show  you  the  pos 
sibilities  of  my  work  among  the  colored  race. 
Mystery  appeals  to  the  negro.  Behind  all  mys 
tery  there  is  power.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
sensationalist  the  negro  may  shout,  demand  an 
impulsive  proof  of  love,  hug  his  brother;  but  in 
his  heart  God  is  a  fearful  and  silent  mystery. 
And  the  Catholic  church  shows  him  that  the 
holy  spirit  is  without  noise.  In  the  creation  of 
the  great  tree  there  has  not  been  a  sound;  all 
has  been  the  noiseless  will  of  God.  It  is  not  dif 
ficult  to  show  him  that  ours  was  the  first  church ; 
it  may  be  shown  that  the  Protestant  Bible  held 
him  a  slave ;  and  above  all  we  prove  to  him  that 
in  the  Catholic  church  there  is  no  discrimina 
tion  against  his  color,  that  a  negro  may  become 
a  Cardinal.  We  convince  him  that  shouting  is 
but  a  mental  agitation  and  a  physical  excitement. 
1  have  know  many  a  negro,  on  the  scaffold,  to 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        157 

renounce  the  religion  which  for  years  he  had 
practiced,  and  with  cool  discernment  embrace 
the  parent  church.  The  germ  of  Catholicism 
is  in  his  blood.  He  cannot  be  a  free  thinker. 
The  barbarian  is  subdued  by  the  solemn -and 
majestic  form  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  while  he 
might  regard  with  disdain  the  intricate  reason 
of  the  Presbyterian  faith.  And  in  this  respect 
the  negro  is  akin  to  the  barbarian.  He  is  moved 
by  music  and  impressed  by  ceremony." 

"You  are  plain-spoken,  indeed,"  the  Major  re 
plied.  "The  boldness  with  which  you  recount 
your  shams  is  most  surprising.  I  didn't  expect 
it." 

"I  told  you  that  I  would  be  bold." 

"But  you  didn't  say  that  you  would  acknowl 
edge  your  insincerity." 

"Nor  have  I  done  so.  I  have  simply  shown 
you  why  our  church  appeals  to  the  superstitious 
blood  of  the  African.  To  accomplish  a  good  we 
must  use  the  directest  means.  If  I  were  seeking 
to  convert  you,  I  should  adopt  a  different  method. 
I  would  appeal  to  your  reason;  convince  you  of 
a  truth  which  the  wisest  men  have  known  and 
still  know — that  the  Catholic  church  is  God's 
church.  It  is  now  time  for  me  to  go,"  he  added, 
after  a  short  pause.  "Please  tell  your  man  that 
I  want  my  horse." 


158       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

At  the  close  of  a  misty  day  Jim  Taylor  stood 
at  the  parlor  door  to  take  his  leave  of  Mrs. 
Cranceford.  During  the  slow  hours  of  the  after 
noon  they  had  talked  about  Louise,  or  sitting  in 
silence  had  thought  of  her;  and  now  at  parting 
there  was  nothing  to  be  added  except  the  giant's 
hopeful  remark,  "I  believe  we'll  hear  from  her 
to-morrow;  I  am  quite  sure  of  it."  Repetition 
may  make  a  sentiment  trite,  and  into  a  slangish 
phrase  may  turn  a  wise  truism,  but  words  spoken 
to  encourage  an  anxious  heart  do  not  lose  their 
freshness.  "Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  he  re 
peated.  And  the  next  day  a  letter  came.  It 
bore  no  post  mark;  the  captain  of  a  steamboat 
had  sent  it  over  from  a  wood-yard.  The  boat 
was  an  unimportant  craft  and  its  name  was  new 
even  to  the  negroes  at  the  landing,  which,  indeed, 
must  have  argued  that  the  vessel  was  making 
its  first  trip  on  the  Arkansas.  The  communica 
tion  was  brief,  but  it  was  filled  with  expressions 
of  love.  "I  am  beginning  to  make  my  way,"  the 
writer  said,  "and  when  I  feel  that  I  have  com 
pletely  succeeded,  I  will  come  home.  My  am 
bition  now  is  to  surprise  you,  and  to  do  this  I 
must  keep  myself  in  the  dark  just  a  little  longer. 
1  have  tried  to  imagine  myself  a  friendless  wo- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       159 

man,  such  as  I  have  often  read  about,  and  I 
rather  enjoy  it.  Love  to  Jim." 

The  Major  was  in  his  office  when  the  letter 
was  brought,  and  thither  his  wife  hastened  to 
read  it  to  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  as  she  entered  the  room. 
"A  letter  from  Louise?  I  don't  want  to  hear  it." 

"John." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  another  crazy  screed 
from  her.  Where  is  she?  Is  she  coming  home? 
Read  it." 

During  the  reading  he  listened  with  one  hand 
cupped  behind  his  ear — though  his  hearing  was 
not  impaired — and  when  the  last  word  had  been 
pronounced,  he  said:  "Likes  to  be  mysterious, 
doesn't  she?  Well,  I  hope  she'll  get  enough  of 
it.  If  her  life  has  been  so  much  influenced  by 
sympathy  why  has  she  felt  none  of  that  noble 
quality  for  us?  Where  is  she?" 

"The  letter  doesn't  say.  It  is  not  even  dated, 
and  it  is  not  post-marked." 

"Did  it  come  in  a  gale?  Was  it  blown  out  of 
a  mysterious  cloud?" 

"It  came  from  the  wood-yard,  and  the  man 
who  brought  it  said  that  it  had  been  left  by  the 
captain  of  the  Mill-Boy,  a  new  boat,  they  say." 

"Well,  it's  devilish " 

"John." 

"I  say  it's  very  strange.  Enjoys  being  mys 
terious.  I  wonder  if  she  equally  enjoys  having 


160  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

the  neighbors  talk  about  her?  Sends  love  to 
Jim.  Well,  that  isn't  so  bad.  You'd  better  have 
some  one  take  the  letter  over  to  him." 

"I  sent  him  word  by  the  man  who  brought  the 
letter  that  we  had  heard  from  her." 

No  further  did  the  Major  question  her,  but  tak 
ing  up  a  handful  of  accounts,  he  settled  himself 
into  the  preoccupation  in  which  she  had  found 
him,  but  the  moment  she  went  out  and  closed 
the  door,  he  got  out  of  his  chair  and  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  walked  up  and  down  the 
room.  At  the  window  he  halted,  and  standing 
there,  looked  down  the  river,  in  the  direction  of 
the  cape  of  sand  whereon  Louise  had  stood,  that 
day  when  Pennington  coughed  in  the  library 
door;  and  in  his  mind  the  old  man  saw  her,  with 
her  hands  clasped  over  her  brown  head...  He 
mused  over  the  time  that  had  passed  since  then, 
the  marriage,  the  death,  the  dreary  funeral;  and 
though  he  did  not  reproach  himself,  yet  he  felt 
that  could  he  but  recall  that  day  he  would  omit 
his  foolish  plea  of  gallantry. 

For  the  coming  of  Jim,  Mrs.  Cranceford  had 
not  long  to  wait.  She  was  in  the  parlor  when 
he  tapped  at  the  door.  After  she  had  called, 
"Come  in,"  he  continued  to  stand  there  as  if  he 
were  afraid  of  meeting  a  disappointment.  But 
when  he  had  peeped  in  and  caught  sight  of  her 
smiling  face,  his  cold  fear  was  melted. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  holding  the  letter  out  to 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER*  161 

him.  Almost  at  one  stride  he  crossed  the  room 
and  seized  the  letter.  In  the  light  of  the  win 
dow  he  stood  to  read  it,  but  it  fluttered  away 
from  him  the  moment  he  saw  that  there  was  a 
greeting  in  it  for  himself.  He  grabbed  at  it 
as  if,  possessing  life,  it  were  trying  to  escape, 
and  with  a  tight  grip  upon  it  he  said:  "I  knew 
she  would  write  and  I  am  sure  she  would  have 
written  sooner  if — if  it  had  been  necessary." 

Mrs.  Cranceford  was  laughing  tearfully.  "Oh, 
you  simple-hearted  man,  so  trustful  and  so  big  of 
soul,  what  is  your  love  not  worth  to  a  woman?" 

"Simple-hearted?  I  am  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  try  to  be  just  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"No,  Jim  Taylor,  there's  more  to  it  than  that. 
A  man  may  be  just  and  his  sense  of  justice  may 
demand  a  stricter  accounting  than  you  ask  for." 

"I  guess  you  mean  that  I'm  weak." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  hastened  to  reply,  "I  don't  mean 
that.  The  truth  is  I  mean  that  you  give  some 
thing  that  but  few  men  have  ever  given — a  love 
blind  enough  and  great  enough  to  pardon  a  mis 
deed  committed  against  yourself.  It  is  a  rare 
charity." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  in  the  fight  of  the  win 
dow  he  stood,  reading  the  letter;  and  Mrs. 
Cranceford,  sitting  down,  gave  him  the  attention 
of  a  motherly  fondness,  smiling  upon  him;  and 
he,  looking  up  from  the  letter  which  a  pleasur 
able  excitement  caused  to  shake  in  his  hand, 
11 


162  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

wondered  why  any  one  should  ever  have  charged 
this  kindly  matron  with  a  cold  lack  of  sympathy. 
So  interested  in  his  affairs  was  she,  so  responsive 
to  a  sentiment,  though  it  might  be  clumsily 
spoken,  so  patient  of  his  talk  and  of  his  silence, 
that  to  him  she  was  the  Roman  mother  whom  he 
had  met  in  making  his  way  through  a  short-cut 
of  Latin. 

"Jim." 

"Yes,  ma'm." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something.  Have  you 
talked  much  with  Tom  lately?" 

"Not  a  great  deal.  He  was  over  at  my  place 
the  other  night  and  we  talked  of  first  one  thing 
and  then  another,  but  I  don't  remember  much 
of  what  was  said.  Why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

"Don't  know  that  I  can.  I  was  always  rather 
slow  at  guessing.  And  don't  let  me  try;  tell 
me  what  you  mean?" 

"You  are  as  stupid  as  you  are  noble." 

"What  did  you  say,  ma'm?"  Again  he  had 
given  his  attention  to  the  letter. 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"But  you  must  have  said  something,"  he  re 
plied,  pressing  the  letter  into  narrow  folds,  and 
appearing  as  if  he  felt  that  he  had  committed  a 
crime  in  having  failed  to  catch  the  meaning  of  her 
remark. 

"Oh,  it  amounted  to  nothing." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  163 

He  stupidly  accepted  this  decree,  and  smooth 
ing  out  the  letter  and  folding  it  again,  requested 
that  he  might  be  permitted  to  take  it  home;  and 
with  this  reply  she  gladdened  him:  "I  intended 
that  you  should." 

At  evening  old  Gid  came,  with  many  a  snort 
and  many  a  noisy  stamp  at  the  dogs  prancing 
upon  the  porch.  Into  the  library  he  bustled, 
puffing  and  important,  brisk  with  the  air  of  busi 
ness.  "John,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down,  "the  last 
bale  of  my  cotton  has  been  hauled  to  the  landing. 
It  will  be  loaded  to-night  and  to-morrow  morn 
ing  I'm  going  with  it  down  to  New  Orleans;  and 
I  gad,  I'll  demand  the  last  possible  cent,  for  it's 
the  finest  staple  I  ever  saw." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  bunch  in  and  sell 
with  me,"  the  Major  replied. 

"I  intended  to,  John,  but  you  see  I'm  too  far 
ahead  of  you  to  wait.  I  don't  like  to  discount 
my  industry  by  waiting.  The  truth  is,  I  want 
the  money  as  soon  as  I  can  get  it.  I  am  chafing 
to  discharge  my  debts.  It  may  be  noble  to  feel 
and  acknowledge  the  obligations  of  friendship, 
but  the  consciousness  of  being  in  debt,  a  monied 
debt,  even  to  a  friend,  is  blunting  to  the  higher 
sensibilities  and  hampering  to  the  character. 
Now,  you've  never  been  in  debt,  and  therefore 
you  don't  know  what  slavery  is." 

"What!  I've  owed  fifty  thousand  dollars  at 
a  time." 


164        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Yes,  but  you  had  a  way  of  getting  out  from 
under  it,  John.  We  don't  deserve  any  credit  for 
paying  a  debt  if  it  comes  easy,  if  it's  natural  to 
us.  Why,  a  man  with  the  faculty  of  getting  out 
from  under  a  debt  is  better  off  and  is  more  to 
be  envied  than  the  man  who  has  never  known 
what  it  is  to  walk  under  a  weight  of  obligations, 
for  to  throw  off  the  burden  brings  him  a  day  of 
real  happiness,  while  the  more  prudent  and  pros 
perous  person  is  acquainted  merely  with  content 
ment.  You've  had  a  good  time  in  your  life, 
John.  On  many  an  occasion  when  other  men 
would  have  been  at  the  end  of  the  string  you 
have  reached  back,  grabbed  up  your  resources 
and  enjoyed  them.  Yes,  sir.  And  you  have 
more  education  than  I  have,  but  you  can  never 
hope  to  rival  me  in  wisdom." 

The  Major  was  standing  on  the  hearth,  and 
leaning  his  head  back  against  the  mantel-piece, 
he  laughed;  and  from  Mrs.  Cranceford's  part  of 
the  house  came  the  impatient  slam  of  a  door. 

"It's  a  fact,  John.  And  within  me  there  is 
just  enough  of  rascality  to  sweeten  my  wisdom." 

"There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  rascality,  Gid. 
The  only  question  is  with  regard  to  the  wisdom." 

"Easy,  John.  The  wisdom  is  sometimes  hid 
den;  modesty  covers  it  up,  and  if  the  rascality 
is  always  apparent  it  is  my  frankness  that  holds 
it  up  to  view.  Yes,  sir.  But  my  wisdom  lacks 
something,  is  in  want  of  something  to  direct  it. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        165 

Pure  wisdom  can't  direct  itself,  John;  it  is  like 
gold — it  must  have  an  alloy.  You've  got  that 
alloy,  and  it  makes  you  more  successful  as  a  man, 
but  sometimes  less  charming  as  a  companion. 
The  part  of  a  man  that  means  business  is  dis 
agreeable  to  a  gentle,  humor-loving  nature  like 
mine.  I  perceive  that  I've  got  my  speculative 
gear  on,  and  I'm  bold;  yes,  for  I  am  soon  to  dis 
charge  a  sacred  obligation  and  then  to  walk  out 
under  the  trees  a  free  man.  But  I'm  naturally 
bold.  Did  you  ever  notice  that  a  sort  of  self- 
education  makes  a  man  adventurous  in  his  talk 
when  a  more  systematic  training  might  hold 
him  down  with  the  clamps  of  too  much  care?" 

"Yes,  might  inflict  him  with  the  dullness  of 
precision,"  the  Major  suggested,  smiling  upon  his 
guest. 

"That's  it,  and  for  this  reason  half-educated 
men  are  often  the  brightest.  I  read  a  book — 
and  I  reckon  I'm  as  fond  of  a  good  book  as  any 
man — without  bringing  to  bear  any  criticisms 
that  scholars  have  passed  upon  it.  But  with 
you  it  is  different." 

"Gid,  you  ascribe  scholarship  to  me  when  in 
fact  you  are  far  more  bookish  than  I  am.  You  sit 
in  your  den  all  alone  and  read  while  I'm  shut  up 
in  my  office  going  over  my  accounts.  From  care 
you  have  a  freedom  that  I  can  never  hope  to 
find." 

"John,  in  comparison  with  me  you  don't  know 
what  care  is." 


166       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

The  Major  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece 
and  laughed. 

"It's  a  fact,  John.  Why,  I  have  care  enough 
to  kill  a  statesman  or  strain  a  philosopher.  Look 
at  me;  I'm  old  and  don't  amount  to  anything, 
and  that  is  one  of  the  heaviest  cares  that  can  set 
tle  down  upon  man.  Wise?  Oh,  yes,  we'll 
grant  that,  but  as  I  before  remarked,  my  wis 
dom  lacks  proper  direction.  It  is  like  ill-directed 
energy,  and  that,  you  know,  counts  for  nothing. 
I  once  knew  a  fellow  that  expended  enough  en 
ergy  in  epileptic  fits  to  have  made  him  a  fortune. 
He'd  fall  down  and  kick  and  paw  the  air — a  reg 
ular  engine  of  industry,  but  it  was  all  wasted. 
But  he  had  a  brother,  a  lazy  fellow,  and  he  con 
ceived  the  idea  of  a  sort  of  gear  for  him,  so 
that  his  jerkings  and  kicks  operated  a  patent 
churn.  So,  if  I  only  had  some  ingenious  fool  to 
harness  me  I  might  do  something." 

"Why,"  said  the  Major,  "I  wouldn't  have  you 
otherwise  than  what  you  are.  Suppose  you  were 
to  become  what  might  be  termed  a  useful  citizen, 
truthful  and  frugal " 

"Hold  on,  John,"  Gid  broke  in,  holding  up  his 
hands.  "You  distress  me  with  your  picture. 
When  I  hear  of  a  frugal  man  I  always  imagine 
he's  hungry.  Yes,  sir.  But  let  me  tell  you,  I'll  be 
a  man  of  affairs  when  I  come  back  from  New  Or 
leans.  You  may  be  assured  of  that.  I'm  going 
to  scatter  money  about  this  neighborhood. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       167 

Why,  every  lout  within  ten  miles  square,  if  he's 
got  fifteen  dollars,  holds  his  opinion  above  mine. 
Ah,  by  a  lucky  chance  I  see  that  your  demijohn 
is  in  here.  And  now  just  fill  up  this  bottle,"  he 
added,  producing  a  flask  as  if  by  a  sleight-of-hand 
trick,  "and  I  will  bid  you  good-night." 


168  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  neighboring  planter,  having  just  returned 
from  New  Orleans,  told  the  Major  that  in  the 
French  market  he  had  met  Gid,  who  had  in 
formed  him  that  for  his  cotton  he  had  received  a 
premium  above  the  highest  price,  in  recognition 
of  its  length  of  fibre  and  the  care  with  which  it 
had  been  handled.  The  part  of  the  statement 
that  bore  upon  the  length  of  fibre  was  accepted 
by  the  Major,  but  he  laughed  at  the  idea  that 
Gid's  care  should  call  for  reward.  But  so  good 
a  report  was  pleasing  to  him  and  he  told  his  wife 
that  her  denunciation  of  the  old  fellow  must 
soon  be  turned  into  praise.  And  with  cool 
thoughtfulness  she  thus  replied:  "John,  is  it 
possible  that  at  this  late  day  you  are  still  permit 
ting  that  man  to  fill  your  eyes  with  dust?  Has 
he  again  wheedled  you  into  the  belief  that  he  is 
going  to  pay  you?  It  does  seem  to  me  that  your 
good  sense  ought  to  show  you  that  man  as  he 
really  is." 

They  were  at  the  dinner  table.  The  Major 
shoved  back  his  chair  and  looked  at  his  wife 
long  and  steadily.  "Margaret,"  said  he,  "there 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        169 

is  such  a  thing  as  persecution,  and  you  are 
threatened  with  a  practice  of  it.  But  do  I  be 
lieve  he  is  going  to  pay  me?  I  do.  And  nat 
urally  you  want  to  know  my  reason  for  thinking 
so." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  know.  I  suppose  your 
kindness  rather  than  your  judgment  has  found  a 
reason.  It  always  does." 

"Good;  and  the  reason  which  a  kindness  dis 
covers,  though  the  search  for  it  may  be  a  mis 
take,  is  better  than  the  spirit  that  inspires  a 
persecution.  However,  we  won't  indulge  in  any 
fine-drawn  argument;  we  will " 

"Search  for  another  reason  when  one  is  ex 
ploded,"  she  suggested,  victoriously  smiling 
upon  him. 

"Oh,  you  mean  that  I  really  haven't  found  one. 
To  tell  you  the  truth  I  haven't  a  very  strong  one. 
But  in  some  way  he  has  convinced  me  of  his  sin 
cerity.  I  have  forced  upon  him  the  understand 
ing  that  at  least  a  good  part  of  the  money  must 
be  paid,  and  the  fact  that  he  took  me  seriously, 
forms,  perhaps,  the  basis  of  my  belief  in  his  de 
sire  to  face  his  obligations.  We  shall  see." 

Several  days  passed,  but  they  saw  nothing  of 
Gid.  It  was  known  that  he  was  at  home,  for 
Jim  Taylor  had  told  the  news  of  his  return.  At 
this  neglect  the  Major  was  fretted,  and  one  morn 
ing  he  sent  word  to  Gid  that  he  must  come  at 
once  and  give  an  account  of  himself.  It  was 


170       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

nearly  noon  jwhen  the  old  fellow  arrived. 
Clumsily  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and 
meekly  he  made  his  way  into  the  yard,  tottering 
as  he  walked.  He  appeared  to  have  lost  flesh, 
and  his  skin  was  yellow  with  worry  and  with 
want  of  sleep.  The  Major  came  forward  and 
they  met  and  shook  hands  under  a  tree.  From 
an  upper  window  Mrs.  Cranceford  looked  upon 
them. 

"Gid,  I  didn't  know  what  had  become  of  you. 
I  heard  of  you  after  you  had  received  for  your 
cotton  more  than  the  market  price,  and " 

"It  was  a  fine  shipment,  John.  Have  you  a 
rope  handy?  I  want  to  hang  myself.  And  why? 
Because  I  don't  expect  anyone  to  believe  my 
statement;  but  John,  as  sure  as  I  am  alive  this 
minute,  my  pocket  was  picked  in  the  French 
market.  Hold  on,  now.  I  don't  ask  you  to 
believe  me,  for  I  won't  be  unreasonable,  but  I 
hope  I  may  drop  dead  this  moment  if  I  wasn't 
robbed.  And  that's  the  reason  I  have  held  back. 
Get  the  rope  and  I'll  hang  myself.  I  don't  want 
to  live  any  longer.  I  am  no  account  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  I  sang  like  a  cricket  when 
I  might  have  been  more  in  earnest,  and  now 
when  my  condition  is  desperate,  the  fact  that 
I  have  been  foolish  and  careless  takes  all  weight 
from  my  words.  As  I  came  along  my  old  horse 
stumbled,  and  I  didn't  try  to  check  him — I  want 
ed  him  to  fall  and  kill  me.  Get  me  the  rope." 


The  Major  took  off  his   hat 
and    leaned    against    the    tree. 
With    humility,    with    drooping 
patience,  Gid  waited  for  him  to 
speak,  and  his  ear  was  strained 
to  catch  the  familiar  word  of  hope,  or  may 
hap  the   first  bar  of  a   resounding  laugh. 
The  first  words  escaped  him ;  he  heard  only 
their  cold  tone  without  comprehending  their 
meaning: 

"I  want  you  to  get  off  that  place  just  as 
soon  as  you  can;  and  I  want  you  to  go 
as  you  came — with  nothing.  I  have  laughed 
at  you  while  you  were  cheating  me;  I  have 
placed  a  premium  upon  your  worthlessness 
and  rascality.  There  is  no  good  in  you. 
Get  off  that  place  just  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"John " 

"Don't  call  me  John.  You  are  a  hypocrite 
and  a  deadbeat.  Yes,  you  have  sung  like  a 
cricket  and  I  have  paid  dearly  for  your  music. 
Don't  say  a  word  to  me;  don't  open  your  lying 
mouth,  but  get  out  of  this  yard  as  soon  as  your 
wretched  legs  can  carry  you,  and  get  off  that 
place  at  once." 

The  Major  turned  his  back  upon  him,  and  the 
old  fellow  tottered  to  the  gate.  With  an  effort 
he  scrambled  upon  his  horse  and  was  gone.  He 
looked  back  as  if  he  expected  to  see  a  hand 
upraised,  commanding  him  to  stop;  he  listened 

171 


PAINFULLY  HE  MADE 
i:iS  SELECTIONS. 


172       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

for  a  voice  inviting  him  to  return;  but  he  saw 
no  hand,  heard  no  voice,  and  onward  down  the 
road  he  went.  In  the  highway  he  met  a  man 
and  the  man  spoke  to  him,  but  he  replied  not, 
neither  did  he  lift  his  heavy  eyes,  but  rode  on 
ward,  drooping  over  the  horse's  neck.  He  passed 
the  house  of  Wash  Sanders,  and  from  the  porch 
the  invalid  hailed  him,  but  he  paid  no  heed. 

Upon  reaching  home,  or  the  cypress  log  house 
which  for  him  had  so  long  been  a  free  and  easy 
asylum,  he  feebly  called  a  negro  to  take  his 
horse.  Into  the  house  he  went,  into  the  only 
habitable  room.  It  was  at  best  a  desolate  abode ; 
the  walls  were  bare,  the  floor  was  rotting,  but 
about  him  he  cast  a  look  of  helpless  affection, 
at  the  bed,  at  a  shelf  whereon  a  few  books  were 
piled.  He  opened  a  closet  and  took  therefrom 
a  faded  carpet-bag  and  into  it  he  put  Rousseau's 
Confessions,  then  an  old  book  on  logic,  and  then 
he  hesitated  and  looked  up  at  the  shelf.  All  were 
dear  to  him,  these  thumbed  and  dingy  books; 
many  a  time  at  midnight  had  they  supped  with 
him  beside  the  fire  of  muttering  white-oak  coals, 
and  out  into  the  wild  bluster  of  a  storm  had  they 
driven  care  and  loneliness.  But  he  could  not 
take  them  all.  Painfully  he  made  his  selections, 
nearly  filled  his  bag,  leaving  barely  room  for 
an  old  satin  waistcoat  and  two  shirts;  and  these 
he  stuffed  in  hastily.  He  put  the.  bag  upon  the 
bed,  when  with  fumbling  he  had  fastened  it, 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


173 


and  stood  looking  about  the  room.  Yes,  that 
was  all,  all  except  a  hickory  walking  cane  stand 
ing  in  a  corner. 

Onward  again  he  went  with  his  cane  on  his 
shoulder  and  his  bag  on  his  back.  At  the  bars 
down  the  lane  a  dog  ran  up  to  him.  "Go  to 
the  house,  Jack,"  he  said,  and  the  dog  under 
stood  him  and  trotted  away,  but  in  the  old 
man's  voice  he  heard  a  suspicious  note  and  he 
turned  before  reaching  the  house  and  followed 
slowly  and  cautiously,  stopping  whenever  the 
old  fellow  turned  to  look  back.  At  the  corner 
of  a  field  Gid  halted  and  put  down  his  bag,  and 
the  dog  turned  about,  pretending  to  be  on  his 
way  home.  In  the  field  was  a  pecan  tree,  tall 
and  graceful.  Year  after  year  had  the  old  man 
tended  it,  and  to  him  it  was  more  than  a  tree,  it 
was  a  friend.  Upon  the  fence  he  climbed,  sitting 
for  a  moment  on  the  top  rail  to  look  about  him ; 
^to  the  tree  he  went,  and  putting  his  arms  about 
it,  pressed  his  wrinkled  cheek  against  its 
bark.  He  turned  away,  climbed  the  fence,  took 
up  his  bag  and  resumed  his  journey  toward  the 
steamboat  landing.  Far  behind,  on  a  rise 
in  the  road,  the  dog  sat,  watching  him.  The 
old  man  turned  a  bend  in  the  road,  and  the 
dog,  running  until  his  master  was  again  in 
sight,  sat  down  to  gaze  after  him.  Far 
ahead  was  the  charred  skeleton  of  a  gin 
house,  burned  by  marauders  many  years 


ONWARD  AfJAPS 


174  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

ago,  and  here  he  was  to  turn  into  the  road 
that  led  to  the  landing.  He  looked  up  as 
he  drew  near  and  saw  a  horse  standing  beside  the 
road;  and  then  from  behind  the  black  ruin 
stepped  a  man — the  Major. 

"Gid,"  he  said,  coming  forward,  "I  believe 
we're  going  to  have  more  rain." 

The  old  man  dropped  his  bag,  and  the  dog 
far  down  the  road  turned  back.  "Wind's  from 
the  northwest,  Gid."  He  put  his  hand  on  the  old 
fellow's  shoulder. 

"Don't  touch  me,  John;  let  me  go." 

"Why,  I  can't  let  you  go.  Look  here,  old 
man,  you  have  stood  by  me  more  than  once — 
you  stood  when  other  men  ran  away — and  you 
are  more  to  me  than  money  is." 

"Let  me  go,  John.  I  am  an  old  liar  and 
an  old  hypercrite.  My  pocket  was  not  picked — 
I  lost  the  money  gambling.  Let  me  go;  I  am  a 
scoundrel." 

He  stooped  to  take  up  his  bag,  but  the  Major 
seized  it.  "I'll  carry  it  for  you,"  he  said.  "Too 
heavy  for  as  old  a  man  as  you  are.  Come  on 
back  and  raise  another  crop." 

"I  haven't  a  thing  to  go  on,  John.  Can't  even 
get  feed  for  the  mules.  Give  me  the  satchel." 

"You  shall  have  all  the  feed  you  want." 

"But  your  wife " 

"I  will  tell  her  that  the  debt  is  paid." 

"John,    your    gospel    would    take    the    taint 


out  of  a  thief  on  a 
cross.  And  I  was 
never  so  much  of  a 
man  as  you  now 
make  me,  and,  I 
gad,  I'm  going  to 
be  worthy  of  your 
friendship.  Let  me 
remind  you  of 
something:  That 
old  uncle  of  mine  in 
Kentucky  will  leave  me  his  money. 
It's  cold-blooded  to  say  it,  but  I  un 
derstand  that  he  can't  live  but  a  short 
time.  I  am  his  only  relative,  and 
have  a  hold  on  him  that  he  can't 
very  well  shake  off.  .He'll  beat  me 
out  of  my  own  as  long  as  he  can, 
but  old  Miz  Nature's  got  her  eye  on 
him.  Yes,  I'll  try  it  again  and  next 
year  I'll  let  you  sell  the  crop.  But 
say,  John,  at  one  time  I  had  them 
fellows  on  the  hip,  and  if  I  had  cashed  in  at 
the  right  time  I  would  have  hit  'em  big.  Ggt 
your  horse  and  we'll  hook  the  satchel  over  the 
horn  of  the  saddle." 

Along  the  road  they  walked  toward  home, 
the  Major  leading  the  horse.  For  a  time  they 
were  silent,  and  then  the  Major  said:  "As  I 

116 


THEY  TALKED  OF  THEIR  DAYS 
ON  THE  RIVER. 


176       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

came  along  I  was  thinking  of  that  bully  from 
Natchez.  He  would  have  killed  me  with  his 
Derringer  if  you  hadn't  broken  his  arm  with 
your  cane." 

"Oh,  yes;  that  red-headed  fellow.  It  has 
been  a  long  time  since  I  thought  of  him.  How 
the  pleasant  acquaintances  of  our  younger  days 
do  slip  away  from  us." 

"Yes,"  the  Major  laughed,  "and  our  friends 
fall  back  as  we  grow  old.  Friendship  is  more 
a  matter  of  temperament  than " 

"Of  the  honesty  of  the  other  party,"  Gid  sug 
gested. 

"Yes,  you  are  right.  Honesty  doesn't  always 
inspire  friendship,  for  we  must  be  interested  in 
a  man  before  we  can  become  his  friend;  and 
mere  honesty  is  often  a  bore." 

When  they  reached  the  gate  that  opened  into 
Gid's  yard,  the  Major  shook  hands  with  the 
old  fellow  and  told  him  to  resume  his  authority 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  interrupt  it. 

"I  will,  John;  but  something  has  happened 
to  interrupt  it,  and  that  interruption  has  been 
my  second  birth,  so  to  speak.  I  passed  away 
at  twelve  o'clock  and  was  born  again  just  now. 
I  won't  try  to  express  my  feelings,  I  am  still 
so  young;  for  any  profession  of  gratitude  would 
be  idle  in  comparison  with  what  I  am  going  to 
do.  I've  got  your  friendship  and  I'm  going 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       177 

to  have  your  respect.    Come  in  and  sit  awhile, 

won't  you?" 

"Not  now,  but  I'll  come  over  to-night." 
"Good.    And  remember  this,  John:    I'm  going 

to  have  your  respect." 


178       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

With  a  generous  and  perhaps  weak  falsehood 
the  Major  sought  to  assure  his  wife  that  Gid 
had  paid  a  part  of  his  debt,  and  that  a  complete 
settlement  vyas  not  far  off,  but  with  a  cool  smile 
she  looked  at  him  and  replied:  "John,  please 
don't  tax  your  conscience  any  further.  It's  too 
great  a  strain  on  you.  Let  the  matter  drop. 
I  won't  even  say  I  told  you  so." 

"And  as  much  as  you  might  want  the  subject 
to  be  dropped  you  can't  let  it  fall  without  re 
minding  me — but  we  will  let  it  drop ;  we'll  throw 
it  down.  But  you  have  your  rights,  Margaret, 
and  they  shall  be  respected.  I  will  tell  him 
that  out  of  respect  to  you  he  must  stay  away 
from  here." 

"That  is  very  thoughtful,  dear;  but  does  it 
occur  to  you  that  your  continued  intimacy  with 
him,  whether  lie  comes  here  or  not,  will  show  a 
want  of  respect  for  me?" 

"You  don't  give  a  snap  whether  he  pays  his 
debts  or  not.  You  simply  don't  want  me  to 
associate  with  him.  No,  it  has  not  occurred  to 
me  that  I  am  not  showing  you  proper  respect 
and  neither  is  it  true.  Margaret,  do  you  know 
what  is  the  most  absurd  and  insupportable  tyr- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       179 

anny  that  woman  can  put  upon  man?  It  is 
to  choose  a  companion  for  her  husband." 

"With  me,  dear,  it  is  not  tyranny;  it  is  judg 
ment." 

"Oh,  yes;  or  rather,  it  is  the  wonderful  intui 
tion  which  we  are  taught  to  believe  that  woman 
possesses.  I  admit  that  she  is  quick  to  see  evil 
in  a  man,  but  she  shuts  her  eyes  to  the  good 
quality  that  stands  opposite  to  offset  it." 

"Oh,  I  know  that  I  haven't  shrewdness  enough 
to  discover  a  good  trait;  I  can  recognize  only 
the  bad,  for  they  are  always  clearly  in  view. 
It  is  a  wonder  that  you  can  respect  so  stupid 
a  creature  as  I  am,  and  I  know  that  you  have 
ceased  to  have  a  deeper  feeling  for  me." 

"Now,  Margaret,  for  gracious  sake  don't  talk 
that  way.  Oh,  of  course  you've  got  me  now, 
and  I  have  to  flop  or  be  a  brute.  Yes,  you've 
got  me.  You  know  I  respect  your  good  sense 
and  love  you,  so  what's  the  use  of  this  wrangle. 
There,  now,  it's  all  right.  I'll  promise  not  to 
go  near  him  if  you  say  so.  And  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  attend  church  with  more  regular 
ity.  I  acknowledge  that  I  can  go  wrong  oftener 
than  almost  any  man.  Respect  for  you!"  he 
suddenly  broke  out.  "Why,  you  are  the  smart 
est  woman  in  this  state,  and  everybody  knows 
it.  Come  on  out  to  the  office  and  sit  with  me." 

Sometimes  the  Major,  with  a  pretense  of  hav 
ing  business  to  call  him  away  at  night,  would 


180       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

go  over  to  old  Gid's  house,  and  together  they 
would  chuckle  by  the  fire  or  nod  over  roasting 
potatoes.  They  talked  of  their  days  on  the 
river,  and  of  their  nights  at  Natchez  under  the 
hill.  To  be  wholly  respectable,  a  man  must 
give  up  many  an  enjoyment,  but  when  at  last 
he  has  become  virtuous,  he  fondly  recounts  the 
escapades  of  former  years;  and  thus  the  memory 
of  hot  blood  quickens  the  feeble  pulse  of  age. 

Sometimes  old  Gid  would  meet  the  Major  at 
the  gin  house  and  joke  with  him  amid  the  dust 
and  lint,  but  he  always  came  and  departed  in 
a  roundabout  way,  so  that  Mrs.  Cranceford,  sit 
ting  at  the  window,  might  not  be  offended  by 
his  horse  and  his  figure  in  the  road.  A  time 
came  when  there  was  an  interval  of  a  week,  and 
the  old  fellow  had  not  shown  himself  at  the 
gin  house,  and  one  night  the  Major  went  to 
the  cypress  log  home  to  invade  his  retirement, 
but  the  place  was  dark.  He  pushed  open  the 
door  and  lighted  the  lamp.  The  fireplace  was 
cheerless  with  cold  ashes.  He  went  to  a  cabin 
and  made  inquiry  of  a  negro,  and  was  told  that 
Mr.  Batts  had  been  gone  more  than  a  week, 
and  that  he  had  left  no  word  as  to  when  he 
intended  to  return.  Greatly  worried,  the  Major 
went  home;  wide  awake  he  pondered  during 
long  hours  in  bed,  but  no  light  fell  upon  the 
mystery  of  the  old  man's  absence;  nor  in  the 
night  nor  at  breakfast  did  the  Major  speak  of 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       181 

it  to  his  wife,  but  silently  he  took  his  worry 
with  him  to  his  office.  One  morning  while  the 
planter  was  at  his  desk,  there  came  a  storming 
at  the  dogs  in  the  yard. 

"Get  down,  boys.  Don't  put  your  muddy 
paws  on  me.  Hi,  there,  Bill,  you  seven  years' 
itch  of  a  scoundrel,  take  my  horse  to  the  stable." 

The  Major  threw  open  the  door.  "Don't  come 
out,  John!"  Gid  shouted,  coming  forward  among 
the  prancing  dogs.  "Don't  come  out,  for  I  want 
to  see  you  in  there." 

He  appeared  to  have  gained  flesh;  his  cheeks 
were  ruddy,  and  his  grasp  was  strong  as  he 
seized  the  Major's  hand.  "How  are  you,  John?" 

"Why,  old  man,  where  on  earth  have  you 
been?" 

"I  have  been  in  the  swamp  for  many  years,  but 
now  I  touch  the  ground  only  in  high  places." 

He  boldly  stepped  into  the  office,  and  as  he 
sat  down  the  'sweep  of  his  coat-tails  brushed 
chattel  mortgages  and  bills  of  sale  from  the 
desk.  "Only  in  high  places  do  my  feet  touch 
the  ground,  John.  I  have  just  returned  from 
Kentucky.  And  I  bring  the  news  that  my  old 
uncle  is  no  more  to  this  life,  but  is  more  to  me 
than  ever." 

"And  you  were  summoned  to  his  bedside," 
said  the  Major,  striving  to  be  serious,  but  smil 
ing  upon  him. 

"Not  exactly.    You  might  say  that  I  was  sum- 


182       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

moned  by  a  lawyer  to  his  chest-side.  He  left 
me  no  word  of  affection,  but  his  money  is  mine, 
and  on  many  a  half-dollar  of  it  I  warrant  you 
there  is  the  print  of  his  tooth.  Give  me  your 
check-book,  John." 

"Wait  a  while,  Gid.  Let  us  accustom  our 
selves  to  the  situation." 

"No;  let  us  get  down  to  business.  I  am  im 
patient  to  pay  a  mildewed  debt.  God's  love  was 
slow,  John,  but  it  came.  How  much  do  I  owe?" 

"I  don't  believe  I'd  pay  it  all  at  once,  Gid. 
Leave  a  part  to  be  met  by  the  next  crop." 

"All  right;  but  it's  yours  at  any  time.  The 
only  way  I  can  use  money  is  to  get  rid  of  it 
as  soon  as  possible.  Make  out  a  check  for  two- 
thirds  of  the  amount  and  I'll  put  my  strong  hand 
to  it.  But  you  haven't  congratulated  me." 

"No,"  the  Major  replied,  with  a  drawl,  "for 
I  felt  that  it  would  have  too  much  the  appear 
ance  of  my  own  greed.  I  have  hounded  you — " 
The  old  fellow  seized  him,  and  stopped  his  utter 
ance.  "Don't  say  that,  John.  You  have  kept 
me  out  of  hell  and  you  ought  to  complete  my 
heaven  with  a  congratulation." 

They  shook  hands,  looking  not  into  each  oth 
er's  eyes,  but  downward ;  the  Major  pretended  to 
laugh,  and  old  Gid,  dropping  his  hand,  blustered 
about  the  room,  whistled  and  stormed  at  a  dog 
that  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door.  Then  he 
sat  down,  crossed  his  legs;  but  finding  this  un 
comfortable,  sprawled  himself  into  an  easier 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       183 

position  and  began  to  moralize  upon  the  life 
and  character  of  his  uncle.  "He  always  called 
me  a  fool  with  an  uproarious  fancy,  an  idiot 
with  wit,  and  a  wise  man  lacking  in  sense.  He 
denied  himself  everything,  and  it  strikes  me  that 
he  must  have  been  the  fool.  I  wish  he  had  gath 
ered  spoil  enough  to  make  me  rich,  but  I  reckon 
he  did  the  best  he  could,  and  I  forgive  him. 
We  must  respect  the  dead,  and  sometimes  the 
sooner  they  are  dead  the  sooner  we  respect 
them.  Let  me  sign  that  thing.  Oh,  he  hasn't 
left  me  so  much,  but  I  won't  quarrel  with  him 
now.  What  was  it  the  moralist  said?"  he  asked, 
pressing  a  blotting  pad  upon  his  name.  "Said 
something  about  we  must  educate  or  we  must 
perish.  That's  all  right,  but  I  say  we  must  have 
money.  Without  money  you  may  be  hon 
est,"  he  went  on,  handing  the  check  to  the 
Major,  "but  your  honesty  doesn't  show  to  advan 
tage.  Money  makes  a  man  appear  honorable 
whether  he  is  or  not.  It  gives  him  courage, 
and  nothing  is  more  honorable  than  courage. 
The  fact  that  a  man  pays  a  debt  doesn't  always 
argue  that  he's  honest — it  more  often  argues  that 
he's  got  money.  Accident  may  make  a  man 
honest  just  as  it  may  make  him  a  thief." 

"Your  log  fire  and  your  old  books  haven't 
done  you  any  harm,  Gid." 

"They  have  saved  my  life,  John.  And  let  me 
tell  you,  that  a  man  who  grows  gray  without 


184       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

loving  some  old  book  is  worse  than  a  fool.  The 
quaint  thought  of  an  old  thinker  is  a  cordial  to 
aged  men  who  come  after  him.  I  used  to  regret 
that  I  had  not  been  better  educated,  but  now 
I'm  glad  that  my  learning  is  not  broader — it 
might  give  me  too  many  loves — might  make  me 
a  book  polygamist.  I  have  wondered  why  any 
university  man  can't  sit  down  and  write  a  thing 
to  startle  the  world;  but  the  old  world  herself  is 
learned,  and  what  she  demands  is  originality. 
We  may  learn  how  to  express  thought,  John, 
but  after  all,  thought  itself  must  be  born  in  us. 
There,  I  have  discharged  an  obligation  and  de 
livered  a  moral  lecture,  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  you  are  the  best  man  I  ever  saw." 

"Now  you  are  talking  nonsense,  Gid.  Why, 
you  have  been  just  as  necessary  to  me  as  I  have 
to  you.  In  a  manner  you  have  been  the  com 
pletion  of  myself." 

"Ah,"  Gid  cried,  scuffling  to  his  feet  and  bow 
ing,  "I  have  the  pleasure  of  saluting  Mrs.  Crance- 
ford.  Some  time  has  passed  since  I  saw  you, 
ma'am,  and  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my  absence." 

The  Major  sprawled  himself  back  with  a 
laugh.  Mrs.  Cranceford,  standing  on  the  door 
sill,  gave  Gid  a  cool  stare. 

"Won't  you  please  come  in?"  he  asked,  cour 
teously  waving  his  haud  over  the  chair  which 
he  had  just  quitted. 

"No,  I  thank  you." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  185 

"Ah,  I  see  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  in 
here.  There  was  a  time  when  it  would  have 
strained  my  boldness,  but  now  it  is  a  pleasure. 
I  am  here  on  business.  To  me  business  is  a 
sweet  morsel,  and  I  delight  myself  with  rolling 
it  under  my  tongue.  Ma'am,  I  have  just  signed 
a  check.  My  dear  old  uncle,  one  of  the  most 
humane  and  charming  of  men,  has  been  cruelly 
snatched  from  this  life;  and  as  he  found  it  im 
possible  to  take  his  money  with  him,  he  left  it 
to  me." 

"I  hope  you  will  make  good  use  of  it,"  she 
replied,  with  never  a  softening  toward  him. 

"I  am  beginning  well,"  he  rejoined^  surprised 
that  she  did  not  give  him  a  kindlier  look.  "I 
am  discharging  my  obligations,  arid  before  night 
I'll  call  on  the  rector  and  give  him  a  check." 

She  smiled,  but  whether  in  doubt  as  to  his 
sincerity  or  in  commendation  of  his  purpose  he 
could  not  determine.  But  he  took  encourage 
ment.  "Yes,  ma'am,  and  as  I  have  now  become 
a  man  of  some  importance,  I  am  going  to  act 
accordingly.  I  am  free  to  confess  that  my  first 
endeavor  shall  be  to  gain  your  good  opinion.'' 

"And  I'll  freely  give  it,  Mr.  Batts,  when  I 
believe  you  merit  it." 

"To  desire  it,  ma'am,  is  of  itself  a  merit." 

She  laughed  at  this,  and  the  Major  laughed, 
too,  for  he  saw  that  no  longer  should  he  be  com 
pelled  to  defend  his  fondness  for  the  old  fellow. 


186       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"I  am  more  than  willing  to  confess  my  moun 
tain  of  faults,"  Gid  went  on,  smiling,  and  his 
smile  was  not  disagreeable.  "I  am  more  than 
willing  to  do  this,  and  when  I  have — and  which 
I  now  do— your  Christian  heart  must  forgive 
me." 

She  laughed  and  held  out  her  hand,  and  with 
a  gallantry  that  would  have  been  reminiscent, 
even  in  old  Virginia,  he  touched  it  with  his 
lips. 

"Come  here,  Margaret;"  said  the  Major,  and 
when  she  turned  toward  him,  smiling,  he  put 
his  arms  about  her,  pressed  her  to  his  breast 
and  fondly  kissed  her. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  187 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Mrs.  Cranceford's  surrender  was  not  as  com 
plete  as  Gid's  fancy  had  fore-pictured  it;  he 
had  expected  to  see  her  bundle  of  prejudices 
thrown  down  like  Christian's  load ;  and  therefore 
the  dignity  with  which  she  looked  upon  the  es 
tablishment  of  his  honor  was  a  disappointment 
to  him,  but  she  invited  him  to  stay  for  dinner, 
and  this  argued  that  her  reserve  could  not  much 
longer  maintain  itself.  With  pleasure  he  re 
called  that  she  had  given  him  her  hand,  but  in 
this  he  feared  that  there  was  more  of  haughtiness 
than  of  generosity.  And  at  the  table,  and  later 
in  the  library,  he  was  made  to  feel  that  after  all 
she  had  accepted  him  merely  on  probation; 
still,  her  treatment  of  him  was  so  different  from 
what  it  had  been,  that  he  took  the  courage  to 
build  up  a  hope  that  he  might  at  last  subdue 
her.  To  what  was  passing  the  Major  was  humor 
ously  alive,  and,  too  keenly  tickled  to  sit  still, 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  slyly  shaking 
himself.  Mrs.  Cranceford  asked  Gid  if  he  had 
read  the  book  which  she  had  loaned  him,  the 
"Prince  of  the  House  of  David,"  and  he  an 
swered  that  when  at  last  he  had  fallen  asleep  the 
night  before,  the  precious  volume  had  dropped 


188       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

beside  his  pillow.  There  were  some  books  which 
he  read  while  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  some  whose 
stirring  qualities  moved  him  to  walk  about  as 
he  gulped  their  contents;  but  with  a  godly  book 
he  must  lay  himself  down  so  that  he  might  be 
more  receptive  of  its  soothing  influence.  Then 
he  reviewed  the  book  in  question,  and  did  it 
shrewdly.  With  the  Jewish  maiden  and  the  Ro 
man  centurion  going  to  see  the  strange  man 
perform  the  novel  rite  of  baptism  in  the  river 
of  Jordan,  he  looked  back  upon  the  city  of 
Jerusalem;  and  further  along  he  pointed  out 
Judas,  plodding  the  dusty  road — squat,  sullen, 
and  with  a  sneer  at  the  marvel  he  was  destined 
to  see. 

"I  believe  you  have  read  it,"  the  Major  spoke 
up,  still  slyly  shaking  himself. 

"Read  it!  Why,  John,  I  have  eaten  it.  I 
gad,  sir —  Pardon  me,  ma'am."  With  a  nod 
she  pronounced  her  forgiveness.  The  slip  was 
but  a  pretense,  foisted  to  change  the  talk  to 
suit  his  purpose.  "Ah,"  said  he,  "I  have  not 
yet  weeded  out  all  my  idle  words,  and  it  grieves 
me  when  I  am  surprised  by  the  recurrence  of 
one  which  must  be  detestable;  but,  ma'am,  I 
try  hard,  and  there  is  always  merit  in  a  sincere 
trial." 

"Yes,  in  a  sincere  trial,"  she  agreed. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  and — now  there's  John  laugh 
ing  at  me  fit  to  kill  himself;  and  bless  me,  ma'am, 


you  are  laughing,  too.     Am  I 
never   to    be    taken    seriously? 
Are  you  thus  to  titter  true  ref 
ormation    out   of   countenance? 
But  I  like  it.     We  are  never 
tired  of  a  man  so  long  as  we 
can  laugh  at  him;    we  may  cry  our 
selves  to  sleep,  but  who  laughs  himself 
to  slumber?    Ma'am,  are  you  going  to 
leave  us?"  he  asked,  seeing  that  Mrs. 
Cranceford  was  on  her  feet.     "But  of 
course  you  have  duties  to  look  after, 
even  though  you  might  not  be  glad  to 
escape  an  old  man's  gabble." 

A  dignified  smile  was  the  only  reply  she  made, 
but  in  the  smile  was  legible  the  progress  his 
efforts  were  making. 

"John,"  he  said,  when  she  was  gone,  "that 
sort  of  a  woman  would  have  made  a  man  of  me." 

"But  perhaps  that  sort  of  a  woman  wouldn't 
have  undertaken  the  job,"  the  Major  replied. 

"Slow,  John;  but  I  guess  you're  right." 

"I  think  so.  Women  may  be  persistent,  but 
they  are  quick  to  recognize  the  impossible." 

"Easy.  But  again  I  guess  you're  right.  I 
gad,  when  the  teachings  of  a  man's  mother 
leave  him  unfinished  there  isn't  a  great  deal  of 
encouragement  for  the  wife.  A  man  looks  upon 
his  wife  as  a  part  of  himself,  and  a  man  will 
lie  even  to  himself,  John." 


GID  AND  HIS  COMPANY. 


190       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"By  the  way,"  the  Major  asked,  sitting  down, 
"have  you  seen  that  fellow  Mayo  since  he  came 
back?" 

"Yes;  I  met  him  in  the  road  once,  but  had 
no  words  with  him." 

"It  would  hardly  do  for  me  to  have  words  with 
him,"  the  Major  replied;  and  after  a  moment 
of  musing  he  added:  "I  understand  that  he's 
organizing  the  negroes,  and  that's  the  first  step 
toward  trouble.  The  negro  has  learned  to  with 
draw  his  faith  from  the  politician,  but  labor  or 
ganization  is  a  new  thing  to  him,  and  he  will 
believe  in  it  until  the  bubble  bursts.  That  fellow 
is  a  shrewd  scoundrel  and  there's  no  telling  what 
harm  he  may  not  project." 

"Then  why  not  hang  him  before  he  has  time 
to  launch  his  trouble?  There's  always  a  way  to 
keep  the  cat  from  scratching  you.  Shoot  the 
cat." 

"No,"  said  the  Major,  "that  won't  do.  It 
would  put  us  at  a  disadvantage." 

"Yes;  but  I  gad,  our  disadvantage  wouldn't 
be  as  great  as  his.  Nobody  would  be  willing  to 
swap  places  with  a  man  that's  hanged." 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  we  would  be  the 
aggressors,  and  distant  eyes  would  look  upon 
him  as  a  martyr." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  isn't  it  better  to  have  one 
man  looked  on  as  a  martyr  than  to  have  a  whole 
community  bathed  in  blood?" 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       191 

"It  might  be  better  for  us,  but  not  for  our 
children.  A  blood-bath  may  be  forgotten,  but 
martyrdom  lives  in  the  minds  of  succeeding  gen 
erations." 

"John,  there  spoke  the  man  of  business.  You 
are  always  looking  out  for  the  future.  I  have 
agreed  with  myself  to  make  the  most  of  the 
present,  and  so  far  as  the  future  is  concerned, 
it  will  have  to  look  out  for  itself — it  always  has. 
Was  there  ever  a  future  that  was  not  prepared  to 
take  care  of  itself?  And  is  there  a  past  that  can 
be  helped?  Then  let  us  fasten  our  minds  to  the 
present.  Let  me  see.  I  wonder  if  we  couldn't 
train  a  steer  to  gore  that  fellow  to  death.  And 
I  gad,  that  would  do  away  with  all  possibility 
of  martyrdom.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Nothing  more  on  that  subject;  but  I  can  say 
something  concerning  another  matter,  and  it 
will  interest  you  more  than  the  martyrdom  of 
all  history." 

"Then  out  with  it.  I  demand  to  be  interested. 
But  don't  trifle  with  me,  John.  Remember  that 
an  old  man's  hide  i^thin." 

"I'll  not  trifle  with  you ;  I'll  startle  you.  Sixty 
years  ago,  the  grandfather  of  Admiral  Semmes 
made  whisky  in  the  Tennessee  Mountains." 

"But,  John,  that  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  the 
old  man  is  dead,  and  here  we  are  alive.  But  he 
made  whisky  sixty  years  ago.  What  about  it?" 

"The  brother  of  the  admiral  lives  in  Memphis," 


192  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER, 

the  Major  continued,  "and  the  other  day  he  sent 
me  a  bottle  of  that  whisky,  run  through  a  log 
before  you  were  born." 

Gid's  mouth  flew  open  and  his  eyes  stuck  out. 
"John,"  he  said,  and  the  restraint  he  put  upon 
his  voice  rippled  it,  "John,  don't  tamper  with 
the  affections  of  an  old  and  infirm  man.  Drive 
me  off  the  bayou  plantation,  compel  me  to  ac 
knowledge  and  to  feel  that  I  am  a  hypercrite  and 
a  liar,  but  don't  whet  a  sentiment  and  then  cut 
my  throat  with  it.  Be  merciful  unto  a  sinner 
who  worships  the  past." 

He  sat  there  looking  upward,  a  figure  of  dis 
tress,  fearing  the  arrival  of  despair.  The  Major 
laughed  at  him.  "Don't  knock  me  down  with 
a  stick  of  spice-wood,  John." 

The  Major  went  to  a  sideboard,  took  there 
from  a  quaint  bottle  and  two  thin  glasses,  and 
placing  them  upon  a  round  table,  bowed  to  the 
bottle  and  said :  "Dew  of  an  ancient  mountain, 
your  servant,  sir."  And  old  Gid,  with  his  mouth 
solemnly  set,  but  with  his  eyes  still  bulging, 
arose,  folded  his  arms,  bowed  with  deep  rever 
ence,  and  thus  paid  his  respects:  "Sunshine, 
gathered  from  the  slopes  of  long  ago,  your 
slave." 

Mrs.  Cranceford  stepped  in  to  look  for  some 
thing,  and  the  play  improvised  by  these  two  old 
boys  was  broken  short  off.  The  Major  sat  down, 
but  Gid  edged  up  nearer  the  table  as  if  prepar- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  193 

ing  to  snatch  the  bottle.  Upon  the  odd-shaped 
flask  she  cast  a  look  of  passing  interest,  and 
speaking  to  the  Major  she  said: 

"Oh,  that's  the  whisky  you  got  from  Memphis. 
Don't  drink  it  all,  please.  I  want  to  fill  up  the 
camphor  bottle " 

Gid  sat  down  with  a  jolt  that  jarred  the  win 
dows,  and  she  looked  at  him  in  alarm,  fearing 
at  the  instant  that  death  must  have  aimed  a  blow 
at  him.  "Camphor  bottle!"  he  gasped.  "Mer 
ciful  heavens,  ma'am,'  fill  up  your  camphor  bot 
tle  with  my  heart's  blood!" 

At  this  distress  the  Major  laughed,  though 
more  in  sympathy  than  in  mirth;  and  Mrs. 
Cranceford  simply  smiled  as  if  with  loathness 
she  recognized  that  there  was  cause  for  merri 
ment,  but  when  she  had  quitted  the  room  and 
gone  to  her  own  apartment,  she  sat  down,  and 
with  the  picture  in  her  mind,  laughed  in  mis 
chievous  delight. 

"Help  yourself,"  said  the  Major.  Gid  had 
spread  his  hands  over  the  whisky  as  if  to  warm 
them  in  this  liquidized  soul  of  the  past. 

"Pour  it  out  for  me,  John.  And  I  will  turn 
my  back  so  as  not  to  see  how  much  you  pour." 

"Go  ahead,"  the  Major  insisted. 

"But  I  am  shaken  with  that  suggested  pro 
fanation,  that  camphor  bottle,  and  I'm  afraid 
that  I  might  spill  a  drop.  But  wait.  I  am  also 
bold  and  will  attempt  it.  Gods,  look  at  that — 
a-shredded  sunbeam." 

13 


194       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  it." 

"I  was  waiting  for  you  to  say  that,  John. 
But  it  is  reverence,  and  not  fear.  That  I  should 
have  lived  to  see  this  day  is  a  miracle.  Shall  I 
pour  yours?  There  you  are." 

They  stood  facing  each  other.  With  one  hand 
Gid  held  high  his  glass,  and  with  the  other  hand 
he  pressed  his  heart.  Their  glasses  clinked,  and 
then  they  touched  the  liquor  with  their  lips, 
sipped  it,  and  Gid  stretched  his  neck  like  a 
chicken.  To  have  spoken,  to  have  smacked  his 
mouth,  would  have  been  profane.  There  is  true 
reverence  in  nothing  save  silence,  and  in  silence 
they  stood.  Gid  was  the  first  to  speak,  not  that 
he  had  less  reverence,  but  that  he  had  more  to 
say  and  felt,  therefore,  that  he  must  begin  earlier. 
"Like  the  old  man  of  Israel,  I  am  now  ready 
to  die,"  he  said,  as  he  put  down  his  glass. 

"Not  until  you  have  had  another  drink,"  sug 
gested  the  Major. 

"A  further  evidence,  John,  of  your  cool  judg 
ment.  You  are  a  remarkable  man.  Most  any 
one  can  support  a  sorrow,  but  you  can  restrain 
a  joy,  and  in  that  is  shown  man's  completest 
victory  over  self.  No,  I  am  not  quite  ready 
to  die.  But  I  believe  that  if  a  drop  of  this 
liquor,  this  saint-essence,  had  been  poured  into 
a  camphor  bottle,  I  should  have  dropped  dead, 
that's  all,  and  Peter  himself  would  have  com 
plimented  me  upon  the  exquisite  sensitiveness  of 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       195 

my  organization.  Pour  me  just  about  two  fin 
gers — or  three.  That's  it.  If  the  commander 
of  the  Alabama  had  taken  a  few  drinks  of  his 
grandfather's  nectar,  the  Confederacy  would 
have  wanted  a  blockade  runner." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  would  have 
softened  his  nerve,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  no;  but  his  heart,  attuned  to  sweet  mel 
ody,  would  have  turned  from  frowning  guns  to 
a  beautiful  nook  in  some  river's  bend,  there  to 
sing  among  flowers  dripping  with  honey-dew. 
I  gad,  this  would  make  an  old  man  young  be 
fore  it  could  make  him  drunk." 

The  Major  brought  two  pipes  and  an  earthen 
jar  of  tobacco;  and  with  the  smoke  came  mus 
ings  and  with  the  liquor  came  fanciful  conceits. 
To  them  it  was  a  pride  that  they  could  drink 
without  drunkenness;  in  moderation  was  a  con 
tinuous  pleasure.  When  Gid  arose  to  go,  he 
took  an  oath  that  never  had  he  passed  so 
delightful  a  time.  The  Major  pressed  him  to 
stay  to  supper.  "Oh,  no,  John,"  he  replied; 
"supper  would  spoil  my  spiritual  flow.  And  be 
sides,  I  am  expecting  visitors  to-night." 

He  hummed  a  tune  as  he  cantered  down  the 
road;  and  the  Major  in  his  library  hummed  the 
same  tune  as  he  stretched  out  his  feet  to  the 
fire. 

As  Gid  was  passing  the  house  of  Wash  San 
ders,  the  endless  invalid  came  out  upon  the  porch 
and  called  him: 


196  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Won't  you  'light?" 

"No,  don't  believe  I've  got  time,"  Gid  an 
swered,  slacking  the  pace  of  his  horse.  "How 
are  you  getting  along?" 

"Not  at  all.  Got  no  relish  for  victuals.  Don't 
eat  enough  to  keep  a  chicken  alive.  Can't  stand 
it  much  longer." 

"Want  to  bet  on  it?"  Gid  cried. 

"What's  that?" 

"I  say  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"Glad  to  know  that  somebody  sympathizes 
with  me.  Well,  drop  in  some  time  and  we'll  take 
a  chaw  of  tobacco  and  spit  the  fire  out." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  expressive  of  a 
welcome  to  Wash's  house.  To  invite  a  man  to 
sit  until  the  fire  was  extinguished  with  the  over 
flow  of  the  quid  was  with  him  the  topknot  of 
courtesy. 

"All  right,"  Gid  shouted  back;  and  then  to 
himself  he  said:  "If  I  was  sure  that  a  drink 
of  that  old  whisky  would  thrill  him  to  death 
I'd  steal  it  for  him,  but  I'd  have  to  be  sure;  I'd 
take  no  chances." 

A  horse  came  galloping  up  behind  him.  Dusk 
was  falling  and  the  old  man  did  not  at  once 
recognize  Mayo,  the  labor  organizer  of  the  ne 
groes.  But  he  knew  the  voice  when  the  fellow 
spoke:  "What's  the  weather  about  to  do?" 

"About  to  quit,  I  reckon,"  Gid  answered. 

"Quit  what?" 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       197 

"Quit  whatever  it's  doing." 

"Pretty  smart  as  you  go  along,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,  and  when  I  stop,  too." 

"Strains  you  to  answer  a  civil  question,  I  see." 

The  old  man  turned  in  his  saddle  and  jogged 
along  facing  the  fellow,  and  some  distance  was 
covered  before  either  of  them  spoke.  "Are  you 
trying  to  raise  a  row  with  me?"  Gid  asked.  "I 
want  to  know  for  if  you  are  I  can  save  you  a 
good  deal  of  time  and  trouble." 

"Sort  of  a  time-saver,"  said  Mayo. 

"Yes,  when  I'm  not  a  recruiter  for  eternity." 

"I  don't  believe  I  follow  you." 

"Wish  you  would,  or  ride  on  ahead.  Now 
look  here,"  he  added,  "I  just  about  know  you 
when  I  see  you,  and  as  I  don't  make  friends  half 
as  fast  as  I  do  enemies — in  other  words,  as  I 
am  able  to  grasp  a  man's  bad  points  quicker  than 
I  can  catch  his  good  ones — I  would  advise  you 
not  to  experiment  with  me.  You  haven't  come 
back  here  for  the  benefit  of  the  community,  and 
if  we  were  not  the  most  easy-going  people  in 
the  world,  we'd  hang  you  and  then  speculate 
leisurely  as  to  what  might  have  been  your  aim 
in  coming  here." 

Mayo  grunted.  He  was  a  tall,  big,  stoop- 
shouldered  fellow.  He  rode  with  his  knees 
drawn  up.  He  had  a  sort  of  "ducking"  head, 
and  his  chin  was  long  and  pointed.  He  grunted 
and  replied:  "I  guess  this  is  a  free  country  or 
at  least  it  ought  to  be." 


198       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Yes,"  Gid  rejoined,  still  facing  him,  "but  it 
won't  be  altogether  free  for  such  as  you  until 
the  penitentiaries  are  abolished." 

"Oh,  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Batts.  You  are 
trying  to  work  up  a  chance  to  kill  me." 

"Good  guess;  and  you  are  trying  to  help  me 
along." 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  if  you  were  to  kill 
me  you  wouldn't  live  to  tell  the  tale.  I  don't 
want  any  trouble  with  you.  I'm  not  here  to 
have  trouble  unless  it's  shoved  on  me.  I  am 
going  to  do  one  thing,  however,  trouble  or  no 
trouble;  I  am  going  to  demand  that  the  colored 
people  shall  have  their  rights." 

"And  at  the  same  time  I  suppose  you  are  go 
ing  to  demand  that  the  white  man  shall  not  have 
his." 

"No,  won't  demand  that  he  shan't  have  his 
rights,  but  that  he  shan't  have  his  way." 

"Not  have  his  way  with  his  own  affairs? 
Good.  And  now  let  me  tell  you  something. 
Want  to  hear  it?" 

"I'm  not  aching  to  hear  it." 

"Well,  I'll  give  it  to  you  anyway.  It's  this: 
The  first  thing  you  know  a  committee  of  gentle 
men  will  call  on  you  and  offer  you  the  oppor 
tunity  to  make  a  few  remarks,  and  after  you 
have  made  them  you  will  thereafter  decline  all 
invitations  to  speak.  At  the  end  of  a  rope  the 
most  talkative  man  finds  a  thousand  years  of  si- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       199 

lence.  Long  time  for  a  man  to  hush,  eh?  Well, 
our  roads  split  here." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  I  turn  to  the  right." 

"But  may  be  my  business  calls  me  over  that 
way." 

"Don't  know  about  that,  but  I'm  going  to 
turn  into  this  lane  and  I  don't  want  you  to  come 
with  me.  Do  you  hear?" 

Mayo  did  not  answer.  Gid  turned  into  a  road 
leading  to  the  right,  and  looking  back  he  saw 
that  Mayo  was  riding  straight  ahead.  "At  any 
rate  he  ain't  afraid  to  say  what  he  thinks,"  the 
old  man  mused.  "Got  more  nerve  than  I 
thought  he  had,  and  although  it  may  make  him 
more  dangerous,  yet  it  entitles  him  to  more  re 
spect." 

His  horse's  hoof  struck  into  a  patch  of  leaves, 
heaped  beneath  a  cottonwood,  and  from  the 
rustling  his  ears,  warmed  by  the  old  liquor, 
caught  the  first  bars  of  a  tune  he  had  known 
in  his  youth;  and  lifting  high  his  voice  he  sang 
it  over  and  over  again.  He  passed  a  negro 
cabin  whence  often  had  proceeded  at  night  the 
penetrating  cry  of  a  fiddle,  and  it  was  night  now 
but  no  fiddle  sent  forth  its  whine.  A  dog  shoved 
open  the  door,  and  by  the  fire  light  within  the  old 
man  saw  a  negro  sitting  with  a  gun  across  his 
lap,  and  beside  him  stood  two  boys,  looking 
with  rapture  upon  their  father's  weapon. 
Throughout  the  neighborhood  had  spread  a  re- 


A  NEGRO  SITTING  WITH  A  GCN. 


port  that  the  negroes  were  meeting  at  night  to 
drill,  and  this  glance  through  a  door  gave  life 
to  what  had  been  a  shadow. 

He  rode  on,  and  his  horse's  hoof  struck  into 
another  patch  of  leaves,  but  no  tune  arose  from 
the  rustle.  The  old  man  was  thinking.  In  a 
field  of  furrowed  clouds  the  moon  was  strug 
gling,  and  down  the  sandy  road  fell  light  and 
darkness  in  alternating  patches.  Far  away  he 
saw  a  figure  stepping  from  light  into  darkness 
and  back  again  into  light.  Into  the  deep  shadow 
of  a  vine-entangled  tree  he  turned  his  horse,  and 
here  he  waited  until  he  heard  footsteps  cronch- 
ing  in  the  sand,  until  he  saw  a  man  in  the  light 
that  lay  for  a  moment  in  the  road,  and  then  he 
cried: 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       201 

"Hello,  there,  Jim  Taylor!" 

"Is  that  you,  Uncle  Gideon?" 

"Yes,  Gideon's  band  of  one.  Come  over 
here  a  moment." 

"I  will  as  soon  as  I  can  find  you.  What  are 
you  doing  hiding  out  in  the  dark?  The  grand 
jury  ain't  in  session." 

"No,  I  gad,  but  something  else  is,"  he  replied. 

Jim  came  forward  and  put  his  hand  on  the 
horn  of  the  old  man's  saddle,  which  as  an  ex 
pert  he  did  in  spite  of  the  shying  of  the  horse; 
and  then  he  asked:  "Well,  what  is  it,-  Uncle 
Gideon?" 

"You've  heard  the  rumor  that  the  negroes  are 
drilling  at  night." 

"Yes,  what  of  it?" 

"It's  a  fact,  that's  what  there  is  of  it.  Just 
now  I  rode  quite  a  ways  with  Mayo  and  he  was 
inclined  to  be  pretty  sassy;  and  right  back  there 
I  looked  into  Gabe  Little's  cabin  and  saw  him 
with  a  gun  across  his  lap." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  Haven't  the  negroes 
had  guns  ever  since  the  war,  and  hasn't  a  man  got 
the  right  to  sit  with  his  gun  across  his  lap? 
Uncle  Gideon,  I'm  afraid  you've  been  putting  too 
much  new  wine  into  an  old  bottle." 

"Soft,  Jimmie;  it  was  old  liquor,  sixty  years 
at  least  But  I  gad,  it  strikes  me  that  you  are 
pretty  glib  to-night.  You  must  have  heard 
something." 


202       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"No,  not  since  Mrs.  Cranceford  got  the  letter, 
but  that  was  enough  to  last  me  a  good  while." 

"Didn't  hear  about  my  bereavement,  did  you?" 

"What,  you  bereaved,  Uncle  Gideon?  How 
did  it  happen?" 

"At  the  imperious  beck  and  eall  of  nature, 
Jimmie.  My  uncle  died  and  inflicted  on  me 
money  enough  to  make  a  pretense  of  paying 
my  debts,  and  I've  made  such  a  stagger  that 
even  Mrs.  Cranceford  has  admitted  me  into  the 
out-lying  districts  of  her  good  opinion.  But 
that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  the  business  in 
hand.  Lets  go  back  yonder  and  find  out  why 
that  negro  sits  there  suckling  his  gun  to  sleep." 

"But  if  he  suckles  it  to  sleep  there's  no  harm 
in  it,  Uncle  Gideon." 

"Ah,  clod-head,  but  it  may  have  bad  dreams 
and  wake  up  with  a  cry.  Let's  go  back  there." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"As  earnest  as  a  last  will  and  testament." 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  that  I'll  do  nothing  of 
the  sort.  You  don't  catch  me  prowling  about 
a  man's  house  at  night,  and  you  wouldn't  think 
of  such  a  thing  if  you  were  strictly  sober." 

"Jimmie,  you  never  saw  me  drunk." 

"No,  but  I've  seen  you  soberer  than  you  arc 
now." 

"An  unworthy  insinuation,  Jimmie.  But  hav 
ing  great  respect  for  your  plodding  judgment, 
I  will  not  go  to  the  negro's  cabin,  but  will  pro- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       203 

ceed  rather  to  my  own  shanty.  And  I  want  you 
to  come  with  me.  Tom  Cranceford  and  Sallie 
Pruitt  will  be  there  and  in  the  shine  of  the  fire 
we'll  cut  many  a  scollop.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Uncle  Gideon,  don't  you  know  how  strongly 
opposed  Mrs.  Cranceford  is  to  Tom's " 

"Bah,  law-abiding  calf.  They  are  going  to 
marry  anyway,  so  what's  the  difference?  Jimmie, 
the  most  useless  man  in  the  world  is  the  fellow 
that  keeps  just  within  the  law.  But  perhaps 
it  isn't  your  law-abiding  spirit  so  much  as  it  is 
your  fear.  In  blind  and  stupid  obedience  there 
is  a  certain  sort  of  gallantry,  and  in  trotting  to 
Mrs.  Cranceford's  cluck  you  may  be  wise." 

"It's  not  that  I'm  afraid  of  offending  her,"  the 
giant  said.  "The  girl  is  too  good  for  Tom  any 
day,  or  for  any  of  us  when  it  comes  to  that,  but 
the  distress  of  his  mother  haunts  me,  and  I  don't 
want  that  girl's  affection  for  Tom  to  haunt  me 
too.  I  don't  want  to  see  them  together  if  I 
can  help  it.  One  haunt  at  a  time  is  enough. 
But  I  tell  you  this,  if  it  should  come  to  a  ques 
tion  I  would  decide  in  favor  of  the  girl." 

"Jimmie,  you  are  improving.  Yes,  I  am  do 
ing  you  great  good.  I  found  your  mind  an  in 
sipid  dish  and  I  have  sprinkled  it  with  salt  and 
pepper.  You  are  right.  Always  decide  in  favor 
of  the  young,  for  the  old  have  already  had  their 
disappointments.  Well,  I'll  go.  Lift  your  paw. 
My  horse  can't  move  out  from  under  its 
weight." 


204  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"All  right,"  said  the  giant,  laughing  and  step 
ping  back.  "By  the  way,"  he  added,  "tell  Tom 
to  be  sure  and  meet  me  at  the  landing  at  two 
o'clock  to-morrow.  We  are  going  down  to  New 
Orleans." 

"What,  alone?  1  ought  to  go  along  to  take 
care  of  you.  I  could  steer  you  away  from  all 
the  bad  places  and  by  this  means  you  would 
naturally  stumble  on  the  good  ones.  I'll  see 
you  when  you  get  back." 

At  home  the  old  man  had  lighted  his  fire  and 
was  listening  to  its  cheerful  crackle  when  his 
visitors  came,  laughing.  With  a  boisterous 
shout  Tom  kicked  the  door  open,  and  when  the 
girl  remonstrated  with  him,  he  grabbed  her  and 
kissed  her. 

"That's  all  right,"  old  Gid  cried.  "One  of  these 
days  the  penitentiary  doors  will  open  for  you 
without  being  kicked  in.  Ah,  delightful  to  see 
you,  my  dear,"  he  said,  bowing  to  the  girl ;  "re 
freshing  to  see  you,  although  you  come  with  a 
scamp.  Sit  down  over  there.  I  gad,  you  are 
a  bit  of  sunshine  that  has  lost  its  way  in  the 
night." 

About  her  head  she  had  wound  a  scarf  of  red 
yarn,  and  as  she  stood  taking  it  off,  with  the 
fire-light  dancing  among  the  kinks  of  her  flax- 
like  hair,  the  old  man  stepped  forward  to  help 
her. 

"Hands  off,"  said  Tom.    "Don't  touch  her." 


"Wolfish  protector  of  a  lamb,"  the 
old  man  replied,  "I  ought  to  throw  you 
out;  but  it  is  not  my  mission  to  cast 
out  devils." 

The  girl  sat  down  on  a  bench  and 
Tom  took  a  seat  beside  her;  and  with 
many  a  giggle  and  a  "quit  that,  now," 
they  picked  at  each  other.  Old  Gid, 
in  his  splint-bottomed  chair,  leaned 
back  against  the  wall  and  feasted  his 
eyes  upon  their  antics.  "Kittens," 
said  he,  "I  will  get  you  a  string  and 
a  button.  Ah,  Lord,  I  was  once  a  de 
licious  idiot." 

"And  you've  simply  lost  your  de- 
liciousness,"  Tom  replied. 

"Ah,  and  in  its  place  took  up  age. 
But  with  it  came  wisdom,  Thomas." 

"But  didn't  it  come  too  late?" 

"The  wise  utterance  of  a  foolish  youth,"  said 
the  old  man.  "Yes,  Thomas,  it  came  too  late. 
Wisdom  is  not  of  much  use  to  an  old  codger. 
He  can't  profit  by  it  himself  and  nobody  wants 
his  advice,  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the  girl 
I  loved?  Ah,  she  was  glorious,  June  was  in 
her  mouth  and  October  fell  out  of  her  hair," 

"And  you  didn't  marry  her  because  she  was 
poor,  eh?" 

"No,  but  because  she  was  rich,  Jimmie,  She 
wanted  me  not;  and  she  married  a  wealthy  fool 

Ml 


SALLY. 


206       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

and  the  imbecile  made  her  happy.  I  could  al 
most  forgive  her  for  not  loving  me  for  I  was  a 
mate  on  a  steamboat,  but  to  let  that  fool  make 
her  happy — it  was  too  much  and  I  cast  her  out 
of  my  mind.  But  when  is  your  wedding  to  take 
place?  In  the  sweet  light  of  a  distant  moon  or 
within  the  sunshine  of  a  few  days?" 

"Hanged  if  I  know." 

"Tom!"  cried  the  girl,  putting  her  hands  over 
his  mouth,  "that's  no  way  to  talk." 

"I  said  it  to  make  you  do  that,"  he  replied,  his 
voice  latticed  by  her  fingers  and  sounding  afar 
off.  He  took  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to 
his  cheek. 

"A  pretty  picture,  and  I'll  long  remember  you 
as  you  now  sit  on  that  bench,"  said  the  old  man. 
"Sallie,  how  old  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  Pap  and  mother  couldn't 
put  it  down  'cause  they  didn't  know  how  to  fig- 
ger,  and  when  I  got  so  I  could  figger  a  little  they 
had  dun  forgot  the  year  and  the  day  of  the 
month.  Most  of  the  time  when  I'm  by  myself 
I  feel  old  enough,  but  sometimes  Uncle  Wash 
calls  me  foolish  and  then  I'm  awful  young.  But 
Aunt  Martha  never  calls  me  foolish  'cause  I 
help  her  in  the  kitchen." 

There  came  a  scatching  at  the  threshold.  The 
old  man  got  out  of  his  tilted  chair  and  opened 
the  door,  and  a  dog,  prancing  in,  lay  down  in 
front  of  the  fire,  .with  his  nose  between  his  out 
stretched  paws. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


207 


"What  a  pretty  dog,"  said  the  girl,  and  with  a 
look  out  of  one  eye  and  with  a  slight  wag  of  the 
tail  the  dog  acknowledged  the  compliment. 

"Oh,  he's  gallant,"  Gid  replied,  sitting  down. 
"And  he  knows  when  a  truth  has  been  told  about 
him." 

"No  good  at  hunting,  is  he?"  Tom  asked. 

"He  is  not  a  sportsman,"  Gid  answered.  "He 
pays  his  keep  with  companionship.  I  sit  here 
and  read  him  to  sleep  nearly  every  night.  He 
tries  to  keep  awake  but  he  can't.  But  as  long 
as  I  read  a  lively  book 
he'll  lie  there  and  look 
up  at  me  as  if  he  enjoys 
it,  and  I  believe  he  does, 
but  'Benton's  Thirty 
Years  in  the  American 
Senate'  will  knock  him 
most  any  time.  And 
old  Whateley's  logic 
makes  him  mighty 
drowsy.  I  reckon  you 
cubs  have  been  to  sup 
per.  If  you  haven't 
you  may  make  your 
selves  at  home  and  cook 
something.  Old  Aunt 
Liza  cooks  for 
me,  out  there  in 
the  other  room, 


ON  THE  BENCH  BEFORE  THE  FIRE. 


208       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

but  she's  generally  away  in  the  service  of  her 
church  and  then  I  have  to  shift  for  myself." 

"We've  been  to  supper,"  the  girl  spoke  up, 
"but  if  you  want  something  to  eat  I'll  cook  it." 

"Bless  your  life,  not  a  bite,"  the  old  man  pro 
tested.  "To  eat  now  would  canker  a  memory. 
I  took  sacrament  over  at  the  Major's.  Now, 
I'm  going  to  lean  back  here  and  I  may  talk  or  I 
may  drop  off  to  sleep,  and  in  either  event  just 
let  me  go.  But  if  I  doze  off  don't  wake  me, 
not  even  when  you  get  ready  to  leave.  Just 
pull  the  door  to  and  that's  all." 

"Ain't  you  afraid  to  sleep  here  all  by  your 
self?"  the  girl  asked.  ''I'd  be  afraid  somebody 'd 
slip  in  and  grab  me." 

"I  could  scarcely  blame  any  one  for  grabbing 
you,  my  dear,"  the  old  man  replied,  smiling  up 
on  her,  "but  as  for  myself,  the  grabber  would 
get  the  worst  of  it." 

A  long  time  they  sat  and  talked  of  neighbor 
hood  happenings,  the  death  of  a  burly  man  who 
it  was  never  supposed  could  die  before  Wash 
Sanders  was  laid  away;  they  talked  of  the  grow 
ing  dissatisfaction  among  the  negroes,  of  the 
church  built  by  Father  Brennon,  of  the  trip  to  be 
taken  to  New  Orleans  by  Jim  and  Tom.  The 
fire-light  died  down.  A  chunk  fell  and  the  dog 
jumped  up  with  a  sniff  and  a  sneeze.  Old  Gid 
eon  took  no  notice,  for  leaning  back  against 
the  wall  he  was  softly  snoring. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       209 

"Let  us  leave  him  just  as  he  is,"  said  Tom. 

"But  it  looks  cruel,"  the  girl  replied. 

"He  suffers  from  sleeplessness  and  to  wake 
him  up  would  be  still  more  cruel.  Let's  do  as 
he  told  us." 

The  girl  put  the  bench  out  of  the  way,  that 
he  might  not  fall  over  it  in  the  dark;  and  out 
of  the  room  they  tip-toed  and  silently  they  closed 
the  door.  By  the  hand  he  led  her  to  the  road, 
and  with  a  coo  and  a  song  they  strolled  home 
ward.  The  clouds  were  scattered  and  acres  of 
light  lay  on  the  cleared  land ;  but  the  woods  were 
dark  and  the  shadows  were  black,  and  he  walked 
with  his  arm  about  her.  They  heard  the  gallop 
ing  of  a  horse  and  stepped  aside  to  let  the  rider 
pass,  and  when  he  had  passed,  with  his  head  in 
the  moon-light  and  his  horse  in  the  dark,  the 
young  man  said:  "I  know  that  fellow." 

"Why  didn't  you  speak  to  him?"  she  asked. 

"Because  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to  have  any 
words  with  him.  He's  the  man  that's  trying  to 
organize  the  negroes." 

He  left  her  at  Wash  Sanders'  gate;  he  heard 
her  feet  upon  the  steps,  and  looking  back  he 
caught  the  kiss  she  threw  at  him. 


14 


210        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  steamboat  ride  to  New  Orleans  will  never 
lose  its  novelty.  Romance  lies  along  the  lower 
river.  The  land  falls  away  and  we  look  down 
upon  fields  bounded  by  distant  mist,  and  be 
yond  that  dim  line  one's  fancy  gallops  riotously. 
Not  alone  the  passenger,  but  the  seasoned  cap 
tain  of  the  boat  stands  musing  and  motionless, 
gazing  upon  the  scene.  In  his  mind  he  could 
carry  the  form  and  the  rugged  grandeur  of  a 
mountain;  upon  a  crag  he  could  hang  his  recol 
lection,  but  this  flat  endlessness  is  ever  an  un- 
encompassed  mystery. 

The  wind  from  the  gulf  was  soft,  and  the  two 
friends  stood  on  the  hurricane-deck,  charmed 
with  a  familiar  view. 

"It  is  just  as  new  to  me  now  as  it  was  when 
I  was  a  boy,  coming  along  here  with  my  father," 
said  the  giant.  "And  yet  I  don't  see  what  makes 
it  interesting,  no  woods,  nothing  but  a  house 
here  and  there." 

"It  always  makes  me  think  I'm  going  over 
the  flat  side  of  the  globe,  and  I  catch  myself 
wondering  what's  just  beyond,"  Tom  replied. 


'There's  the  city  'way  round 
yonder.  How  long  do  you 
want  to  stay?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly." 

"Got  any  particular  busi 
ness  down  here?" 

"No,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 
"None  that  I  know  of." 

"Just  pleasure,  is  it?" 

"Well,  I  reckon  we  might 
call  it  that." 

"Might  call  it  that?    But  I  know  why 
I'm    here.    I've    come    because    you 

wanted  me  to.     There  is  nothing  going          THE  RIVER  STEAMER. 
on  that  I  care  to  see.     What  is  it  you're  after?" 

"Oh,  just  want  to  look  around  a  little." 

"All  right,  old  fellow,  I'm  with  you,  but  as 
soon  as  you  get  tired  of  looking  around  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  I've 
been  gone  a  month  already.  You  know  why." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  you've  got  a  consolation 
that  I  never  had — you  know  what  to  expect  when 
you  get  back." 

"Yes,  that's  true,  and  may  be  you'll  know 
what  to  expect  one  of  these  days." 

From  the  museful  distance  the  giant  removed 
his  gaze  and  upon  the  boy  at  his  side  he  bent  a 
kindly  look.  "I  have  been  reading  a  good  deal  of 
late,"  he  said,  "and  old  Gid  has  told  me  that  I 
am  improving,  but  I  have  found  no  book  to 

211 


212        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  me.  I  took  the 
heartache  away  back  yonder — but  we  won't  talk 
about  it.  We'll  poke  around  down  here  a  day 
or  two  and  then  go  home." 

"But  hang  it,  I  thought  you  came  to  enjoy 
yourself  and  not  to  conjure  up  things  to  make 
you  sad." 

"You  are  right,  and  you  shan't  hear  any  more 
sad  talk  out  of  me." 

It  was  early  in  the  forenoon  when  they  stepped 
ashore  and  stood  upon  the  old  levee.  The  splen 
did  life  of  the  Mississippi  steamboat  is  fading, 
but  here  the  glow  lingers,  the  twilight  at  the 
close  of  a  fervid  day.  No  longer  are  seen  the 
gilded  names  of  famous  competitors,  "The  Lee," 
"The  Natchez,"  but  unheralded  boats  are 
numerous,  and  the  deck-hands'  chorus  comes 
with  a  swell  over  the  water,  and  the  wharf  is  a 
jungle  of  trade. 

In  the  French  market  they  drank  black  cof 
fee,  listening  to  the  strange  chatter  about  them, 
and  then  aimlessly  they  strolled  away. 

"What's  your  programme?"  the  boy  asked. 

"Haven't  any." 

"Do  you  want  to  call  on  any  of  the  cotton 
buyers?" 

"No,  don't  care  to  see  them." 

"All  right;  I'll  walk  until  you  say  quit." 

And  thus  they  passed  the  day,  with  strolling 
about,  halting  to  look  at  an  old  tiled  roof,  a 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       213 

broken  iron  gate,  a  wrought  iron  balcony,  a 
snail-covered  garden  wall;  and  when  evening 
was  come  they  went  to  a  hotel  to  rest;  but  no 
sooner  had  night  fallen  than  they  went  out 
again  to  resume  their  walk. 

"Look  here,"  said  Tom,  beginning  to  lag,  "I 
don't  want  to  kick,  but  I'd  just  like  to  know 
why  I  am  fool  enough  to  walk  all  day  like  a 
mule  on  a  tread-mill?" 

"You  said  you'd  walk  with  me." 

"Said  I   would!     Haven't  I?" 

"Yes,"  the  giant  drawled,  "in  a  manner." 

"If  I  haven't  walked  I  don't  know  what  you 
call  walking.  You  have  made  a  machine  of  me, 
a  corn-planter.  Would  you  mind  telling  me 
where  we  are  going  now?" 

"I  confess  I  don't  know,"  the  giant  answered. 

"Then  let  us  look  around  and  find  out.  Right 
now  I'd  rather  be  in  old  Gid's  house,  sitting  with 
somebody  on  a  bench — and  I'm  going  back  to 
morrow.  What  fun  is  there  in  poking  about 
this  way  like  a  couple  of  gawks?  You  even 
pull  me  away  from  the  supper  table  to  tramp 
up  and  down  these  streets.  Hang  it,  I  don't 
want  to  see  people.  Every  face  I  see  is-- — " 

"A  disappointment,"  said  the  giant. 

"Then  why  do  you  take  the  crowded  side  of 
the  street?  Let's  go  in  here  and  sit  down  a 
moment." 

They  had   halted  in   front  of  a  music  hall. 


214       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

From  within  proceeded  the  husky  song  of  a 
worn-out  negro  minstrel. 

"You  may  go  in  but  I'll  walk  on,"  Jim  re 
plied.  "It's  nothing  but  a  dive.  I'll  go  on  down 
to  the  corner  and  wait  for  you.  Don't  stay 
long." 

Jim  strode  away  and  Tom  went  into  the  beer 
hall.  At  the  far  end  was  a  stage,  and  on  it 
stood  the  minstrel,  dimmed  by  intervening  to 
bacco  smoke.  The  floor  was  covered  with 
damp  saw-dust.  The  place  was  thronged  with  a 
motley  crowd,  sailors,  gamblers,  with  here  and 
there  a  sprinkle  of  wayward  respectability. 
Painted  girls  attended  the  tables  and  everywhere 
was  the  slopping  of  beer  and  the  stench  of  the 
cigarette. 

Tom  was  about  to  turn  away  when  the  sight 
of  a  company  gathered  about  a  table  halted  him ; 
and  through  the  smoke  his  vision  leaped  and 
rested  upon — Louise.  There  was  a  rush,  an 
over-turning  of  a  table,  the  toppling  over  of  a 
tipsy  man,  and  Tom  stood  confronting  her.  In 
a  loud  voice  he  cried:  "What  the  devil  are  you 
doing  here!" 

She  got  up  and  held  out  her  hand,  but  resent 
ment  entered  her  mind  and  she  drew  it  back. 
"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  replied.  "I've 
as  much  right  here  as  you  have." 

"I'll  show  you  about  that!"  he  roared,  his 
anger  lifting  his  voice  high  above  the  grumble 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


215 


and  the  sharp  clack  of  the  place.  "I'll  drag  you 
out!" 

Beside  her  sat  a  solemnly-respectable  man, 
and  up  he  got  and  quietly  said:  "Your  lan 
guage  is  most  insulting,  sir." 

Tom  did  not  wait  to  weigh  the  remark;  in 
deed  he  did  not  hear  it,  for  like  a  bull  dog  in  a 
fury  he  lunged  at  the  quiet  man's  throat,  laid 


216        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

hold  of  his  collar,  shoved  him  off  to  arm's 
length,  and  struck  him,  but  the  blow  glanced 
and  the  man  jerked  away.  And  then  amid  loud 
cries,  the  over-turning  of  tables  and  the  smash 
ing  of  glasses,  the  furious  youngster  felt  himself 
seized  by  many  hands.  But  he  was  a  tiger  and 
they  could  not  bear  him  to  the  floor.  He  broke 
loose  and  sprawled  one  man  upon  the  saw-dust. 
Others  rushed  upon  him  and  again  he  was  in  a 
tangle  and  a  tug,  but  he  tore  himself  from  their 
hands,  got  a  square  blow  at  the  proprietor  of 
the  house  and  knocked  him  senseless.  For  a 
moment  he  was  free,  and  this  moment  was  not 
left  unimproved.  From  an  upturned  table  he 
wrenched  a  leg,  and  swinging  it  above  his  head 
he  cleared  his  way  to  a  side  door,  and  snatch 
ing  it  open,  he  sprung  out  into  a  small  court, 
just  as  the  police  were  entering  at  the  front  of 
the  house.  In  the  court  a  dim  light  was  burn 
ing;  at  the  end,  but  a  few  yards  away,  was  a 
rusty  iron  gate,  and  whether  or  not  it  was 
locked  he  never  knew,  for  throwing  down  his 
weapon  he  laid  hold  of  a  bar  and  with  a  jerk 
he  tore  the  gate  from  its  rust-eaten  hinges,  threw 
it  against  a  wall  and  was  out  in  the  street.  Now 
he  ran,  through  an  open  space,  into  another 
-street,  and  then  he  walked,  panting,  looking 
back.  It  must  have  been  difficult  to  explain  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance  for  the  police  had  not 
followed  him.  He  haked  under  a  lamp  hung 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  217 

above  a  narrow  doorway.  His  hat  was  gone, 
his  coat  was  torn,  and  the  bosom  of  his  shirt 
was  in  shreds.  The  short  street  was  deserted, 
but  he  fancied  that  he  heard  footsteps,  and 
quickly  he  walked  to  a  corner,  and  turning,  saw 
Jim  standing  under  a  lamp-post  not  far  away. 
The  giant  was  not  looking  toward  him,  and  not 
hearing  his  easy  approach,  did  not  turn  his  head 
until  Tom  was  almost  within  the  shade-rim  of 
the  lamp. 

"Why,  what  the  deuce  have  you  been  doing?" 
the  giant  cried,  reaching  him  at  a  stride.  "You 
look  like  a  drowned  rat,  and  your  neck  is  clawed. 
What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Row,"  the  boy  panted. 

"In  that  place?  Come  back  and  we'll  clean 
it  out.  Come  on." 

"No,"  said  Tom,  "let's  get  away  from  here. 
I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  Let's  circle 
round  here  somewhere  and  get  a  hat.  I'll  tell 
you  when  we  get  back  to  the  hotel,  and  you 
won't  care  to  walk  any  more  to-night  after  I've 
told  you." 

Jim  might  have  been  burning  to  know  more, 
but  he  said  nothing,  for  dogged  patience  was  a 
part  of  his  heroism.  He  took  the  boy's  arm  and 
led  him  away,  to  a  place  where  a  hat  was 
bought  and  thence  to  the  hotel;  and  not  until 
they  were  shut  in  a  room  did  Tom  attempt  to  tell 
his  story.  And  it  was  even  then  some  minutes 


before  he  could  proceed.  His 
anger  \vas  gone  and  sorrow  was 
upon  him.  Several  times  he 
choked.  And  then  he  told  his 
story.  With  hard -steps  the  giant 
walked  about  the  room,  saying 
not  a  word;  but  he 
drooped  as  he  halted  at  the 
window,  as  he  stood  look 
ing  out  upon  the  glim 
mering  lights,  far  below. 
"You  said  I  wouldn't 
want  to  walk  to-night, 
but  I  must,"  he  spoke, 
and  his  voice  had  a 
smothered  sound.  "I  am 
going  out  to  look  for  her. 
And  now  you  know  why 
I  have  been  walking  all  day,  gazing  at  the  faces 
in  the  crowd."  He  had  turned  from  the  glim 
mering  lights  and  was  looking  at  Tom.  "I  traced 
that  letter  she  wrote,  and  in  my  mind  I  settled 
that  it  must  have  come  from  this  place.  But  I 
didn't  tell  your  mother  what  I  suspected;  I  kept 
it  to  myself." 

"If  you  go  out  again  111  go  with  you,  Jim." 
"No,  I  insist  upon  going  alone." 
He  went  out;    and  when  he  returned,  just 
before  the  dawn,  he  found  the  boy  asleep  on  a 
chair.     He  took  him  up,  put  him  upon  a  bed 

218 


TOM'S  ESCAPE. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       219 

and  sat  himself  down  at  a  window;  and  when 
Tom  awoke,  along  toward  ten  o-clock,  the  giant 
was  still  sitting  there. 

"Jim." 

"Well." 

"How  long  have  you  been  in?" 

"Don't  know." 

"You  didn't— didn't  find  her?" 

"No.  I  went  to  the  place  where  you  had  the 
fight — wish  to  the  Lord  I  had  been  with  you — 
but  of  course  couldn't  learn  anything.  I  was — 
was  afraid  to  ask  about  her.  But  I  tramped 
around  all  night,  and  I  went  into  all  sorts  of 
places,  looking  for  her,  and  all  the  time  afraid 
that  I  might  find  her.  God,  what  am  I  talking 
about!  Afraid  of  finding  her!  Why,  she 
couldn't  be  in  a  place  where — where  she  oughtn't 
to  be." 

"But  she  was!"  the  boy  cried,  bounding  out 
upon  the  floor.  "She  was  and — Great  God,  I 
can  hardly  believe  it,  I  don't  realize  it!  I  have 
been  so  swallowed  up  that  I  haven't  thought 
about  her  much  lately — she's  crazy,  Jim.  Oh, 
she  must  be.  She  was  the  purest-minded 
girl " 

The  giant  stopped  him  with  an  uplifting  67 
his  ponderous  hand,  "Don't  say  any  more.  Don't 
say  she  "was  pure-minded.  She  is  pure-minded. 
I  will  find  her  and  she  shall  tell  me " 


220       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"She  can't  tell  you  anything  to  clear  herself, 
Jim.  She's  lost — she's  crazy." 

"She's  an  angel,"  said  the  giant. 

"My  dear  Jim,  she's  my  sister  and  I  loved  her, 
but  angels  can't  go " 

"Don't  say  it." 

"I  won't,  but  don't  you  be  foolish.  Truth  is 
truth,  and  we  have  to  look  at  it  whether  we  want 
to  or  not."  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 
"Who  would  have  thought  that  such  a  thing 
could  happen?"  he  went  on.  "It's  a  dream.  But 
why  did  she  leave  home  when  she  knew  how 
much  we  all  loved  her?  What  made  her  run 
away  from  you  when  she  knew  how  you  loved 
her?  Jim,  I'm  going  home  to-day.  Are  you 
coming  with  me?" 

"No,  I'm  going  to  stay  here  and  look  for  her." 

"And  when  you  have  found  her  she'll  treat 
you  as  she  did  me.  She'll  say  she  has  as  much 
right  there  as  you  have.  I  don't  believe  it's  any 
use.  Better  come  home  with  me." 

"No,  I'm  going  to  look  for  her,  and  if  she'll 
marry  me  I'll  bring  her  home." 

"Jim,  she  is  my  sister,  but — I  won't  say  it.  I 
love  her,  but  I  would  rather  have  seen  her  dead 
than  where  I  saw  her  last  night.  I'm  going 
home." 

"Wait  a  moment."  For  a  time  he  pondered 
and  then  he  said:  "You  may  tell  your  mother, 
but  don't  tell  the  Major." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        221 

"But  why  should  it  be  kept  from  him?  He 
ought  to  know  it.  We'll  have  to  tell  him  some 
time." 

"Some  time,  may  be,  but  not  now,  and  don't 
you  even  hint  it  to  him,  and  don't  you  tell  Sallie. 
Don't  tell  any  one  but  your  mother,  Do  you 
hear?" 

''Yes,  and  I  reckon  you're  right.  I'll  do  as 
you  tell  me.  Well,  it's  time  and  I'm  going." 

Jim  went  with  him  to'  the  levee,  saw  him  on 
a  boat  and  then  resumed  his  search  throughout 
the  town.  But  he  asked  no  questions ;  and  three 
days  later  when  he  went  aboard  the  home-bound 
boat,  he  knew  no  more  than  he  had  known  the 
night  when  the  boy  had  told  his  story. 


222       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  night  was  rainy  and  a  fierce  wind  was 
blowing.  The  Major  and  his  wife  were  by  the 
fire  in  the  sitting-room,  when  there  came  a  heavy 
tread  upon  the  porch,  but  the  knock  that  fell 
upon  the  door  was  gentle.  They  knew  who  had 
come,  and  the  door  was  opened  for  Jim  Taylor. 
Quietly  he  responded  to  their  greeting,  and  with 
both  hands  he  took  off  his  slouch  hat,  went  to 
the  fireplace  and  over  the  blaze  shook  it 

"Put  myself  in  mind  of  a  wet  dog,"  he  said. 
"Didn't  think  to  shake  outside.  How  are  you 
all  getting  along?" 

He  was  looking  at  Mrs.  Cranceford,  but  the 
Major  answered  him.  "In  the  same  old  way.  Tilt 
that  cat  out  of  the  rocking-chair  and  sit  down." 

"Have  you  heard  of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Wash 
Sanders?"  Mrs.  Cranceford  asked,  fearing  that 
the  Major  might  get  ahead  of  her  with  this 
piece  of  news,  but  all  along  determined  that  he 
should  not. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  he  said;  but  his  want  of  sur 
prise  was  not  satisfying,  and  Mrs.  Cranceford 
said:  "I  mean  Mrs.  Wash  Sanders." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  this  is  the  first  I've  heard 
of  it  I  came  from  the  boat  right  up  here.  So 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       223 

the  poor  woman's  dead?  She  never  knew  any 
thing  but  hard  work.  How  long  was  she  sick? 
Shouldn't  think  she  could  take  the  time  to  be 
sick  long,  poor  soul." 

"She  was  not  in  bed  more  than  two  days. 
It  was  awful,  the  way  she  suffered.  And  all 
the  time  Wash  was  whining  that  he  couldn't  eat 
anything,  as  if  anybody  cared.  I  never  was  so 
provoked  at  a  man  in  my  life.  I'd  like  to  know 
who  cares  whether  he  eats  another  bite  or  not. 
Actually,  I  believe  he  thought  the  neighbors 
had  come  to  sympathize  with  him  instead  of 
to  nurse  his  wife.  And  when  she  was  dead  he 
went  about  blubbering  that  he  couldn't  live  but 
a  few  days." 

"He'll  outlive  us  all,"  said  the  Major.  "He 
told  us  yesterday  that  he  was  threatened  with 
convulsions,  and  Gid  swore  that  a  convulsion 
was  about  the  last  thing  he  ought  to  fear,  that 
he  was  too  lazy  to  entertain  such  an  exertion." 

In  this  talk  Jim  felt  not  even  the  slightest 
interest.  He  wanted  to  talk  about  Louise.  But 
not  in  Mrs.  Cranceford's  manner  nor  in  her  eyes 
when  she  looked  straight  at  him  was  there  a 
hint  that  Tom  had  told  her  that  the  girl  had 
been  seen.  Perhaps  the  boy  had  decided  to 
elect  him  to  this  unenviable  office.  The  Major 
asked  him  about  his  trip,  but  he  answered  as 
if  he  cared  not  what  he  said;  but  when  shortly 
afterward  the  Major  went  out,  Taylor's  uncon- 


224       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

cern  fell  from  him  and  he  stood  up  and  in  trem 
ulous  anxiousness  looked  at  Mrs.  Cranceford, 
expecting  her  to  say  something.     Surely  Tom 
had  told  her  nothing,  for  she  quietly  smiled  at 
him  as  he  stood  there,  awkwardly  and  distress 
fully  fumbling  with  himself. 
"I  have  a  letter  from  her,"  she  said. 
Taylor  sat  down  hard.    "A  letter  from  her!" 
"Yes;    received  it  this  morning." 
"But  has  Tom  told  you  anything?" 
"Yes;    everything." 

"And  she  has  written  to  you  since  then?" 
"Yes;  I  will  show  you."  On  a  corner  of  the 
mantel-piece  was  a  work-box,  and  unlocking  it, 
she  took  out  a  letter  and  handed  it  to  him. 
"Read  it,"  she  said,  "and  if  you  hear  the  Major 
coming,  put  it  away.  Some  references  in  it  would 
have  to  be  explained,  and  so  I  have  decided  not 
to  let  him  see  it." 

He  took  the  letter,  and  standing  where  the 
light  from  the  hanging  lamp  fell  brightest,  read 
the  following: 

"My  Dear  Mother: — By  this  time  Tom  must 
have  told  you  of  our  meeting.  And  what  a 
meeting  it  was.  He  was  worse  than  an  orang 
outang,  but  I  must  say  that  I  admire  his  cour 
age,  and  I  struggled  to  help  him  when  he  was 
in  the  thick  of  his  fight,  but  my  friends  tore  me 
away,  realizing  that  flight  was  our  only  redemp 
tion.  Of  course  you  will  wonder  why  I  was 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  225 

in  such  a  place,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  can 
explain  in  a  satisfactory  manner  to  you,  and 
surely  not  to  father.  I  would  have  introduced 
Tom  to  my  friends  had  he  given  me  time,  but 
it  appears  that  he  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry 
to  attend  upon  the  demands  of  politeness.  Fight 
was  boiling  in  his  blood  and  it  had  to  bubble 
out.  Mother,  I  was  with  a  slumming  party. 
Do  you  know  what  a  slumming  party  is?  It 
is  a  number  of  respectable  people  whom  curios 
ity  leads  into  the  resorts  of  crime  and  vice. 
Society  thinks  that  it  makes  one  wiser,  and  that 
to  know  the  aspect  of  depravity  does  not  make' 
one  less  innocent.  But  I  know  that  you  will 
not  approve  of  a  slumming  party,  and  I  cannot 
say  that  I  do.  The  Rev.  H.  Markham,  whose 
sermons  you  must  have  read,  was  with  me.  As 
the  champion  of  virtue  he  has  planned  and  ex 
ecuted  an  invasion  of  the  haunts  of  iniquity, 
and  his  weekly  discourses  here  are  very  pop 
ular,  particularly  with  women.  Well,  he  was 
sitting  beside  me,  and  I  have  since  thought  that 
it  must  have  been  a  great  shock  to  his  dignity 
when  Tom  struck  him;  but  his  greatest  solici 
tude  was  the  fear  that  the  occurrence  might  be 
spread  by  the  newspapers,  and  to  keep  it  out 
was  his  first  care.  That  night  on  business  I 
left  the  city,  and  I  write  this  in  a  quiet,  Arca 
dian  neighborhood.  It  is  with  pleasure  that  I 
feel  myself  a  success  in  the  work  which  I  have 

16 


226       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

chosen.  What  work?  you  naturally  ask.  But 
that  is  my  secret,  and  I  must  hold  it  just  a 
little  longer." 

Here  several  lines  were  erased  and  a  fresh 
start  taken.  "I  have  longed  to  look  upon  the 
dear  faces  at  home;  but  mingled  with  my  love  is 
a  pride.  I  am  determined  to  make  something 
of  myself.  Simply  to  be  an  honest,  patient,  up 
right  woman,  in  love  with  her  home,  is  no 
longer  enough.  Life  demands  more  than  this, 
or  at  least  woman  demands  it  of  life.  And  to 
be  somebody  calls  for  sacrifice  as  well  as  ability 
and  determination.  Absence  from  home  is  my 
sacrifice,  and  what  my  effort  is  you  shall  know 
in  due  time.  It  will  surprise  you,  and  in  this 
to  me  will  lie  a  delight.  My  associates  tell  me 
that  I  am  different  from  anyone  else,  but  this 
difference  they  put  down  as  an  individuality, 
and  success  in  my  field  is  won  only  by  the  indi 
vidual.  Within  two  weeks  from  this  day  I  shall 
be  with  you,  and  then  my  little  ant-hill  of  mys 
tery  will  be  torn  to  pieces.  I  am  going  to  show 
you  all  how  I  love  you ;  I  am  going  to  prove  to 
you  that  what  has  appeared  odd  and  unlady-like 
were  but  leadings  to  my  development." 

More  lines  were  erased,  and  then  the  letter  thus 
proceeded : 

"For  some  time  I  have  had  it  in  mind  to 
make  Sallie  Pruitt  a  present,  but  as  I  have  no 
idea  as  to  what  she  might  like  best,  I  enclose 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        227 

twenty  dollars,  which  you  will  please  give  to 
her.  Do  you  see  my  hero  often?  I  think  of 
him,  dream  of  him,  and  my  heart  will  never 
know  a  perfect  home  until  his  love  has  built  a 
mansion  for  it." 

The  letter  was  fluttering  in  the  giant's  hand. 
"Who — who — what  does  she  mean?" 

"She  means  you,  stupid!"  Mrs.  Cranceford 
cried. 

He  looked  up,  dazed;  he  put  out  his  hand, 
he  grabbed  his  hat,  he  snatched  the  door  open 
and  was  out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 


228       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

With  rain-soaked  sand  the  road  was  heavy, 
and  to  walk  was  to  struggle,  but  not  so  to  the 
giant  treading  his  way  homeward.  Coming,  he 
had  felt  the  opposition  of  the  wind,  the  rain  and 
the  mushy  sand,  but  returning  he  found  neither 
in  the  wind  nor  in  the  sand  a  foe  to  progress. 
His  heart  was  leaping,  and  with  it  his  feet  were 
keeping  pace.  In  his  hand  he  held  the  letter; 
and  feeling  it  begin  to  cool  in  his  grasp,  he 
realized  that  the  rain  was  beating  upon  it;  so, 
holding  in  common  with  all  patient  men  the 
instincts  of  a  woman,  he  put  the  wet  paper  in 
his  bosorn  and  tightly  buttoned  his  coat  about  it. 
Suddenly  he  halted;  the  pitiful  "howling  of  a 
dog  smote  his  ear.  At  the  edge  of  a  small  field 
lying  close  to  the  road  was  a  negro's  cabin, 
and  from  that  quarter  came  the  dog's  distressful 
outcry.  Jim  stepped  up  to  the  fence  and  listened 
for  any  human-made  noise  that  might  proceed 
from  the  cabin,  but  there  came  none — the  place 
was  dark  and  deserted.  "They  have  gone  away 
and  left  him  shut  up  somewhere,"  he  mused,  as 
he  began  to  climb  the  fence.  The  top  rail  broke 
under  his  weight,  and  his  mind  flew  back  to 
the  day  when  he  had  seen  Louise  in  the  road, 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       229 

confronted  by  the  burly  leader  of  a  sheepfold, 
for  then  with  climbing  a  fence  he  had  broken 
the  top  rail. 

He  found  the  dog  shut  in  a  corn-crib,  and  the 
door  was  locked.  But  with  a  jerk  he  pulled 
out  the  staple,  thinking  not  upon  the  infraction 
of  breaking  a  lock,  but  glad  to  be  of  service 
even  to  a  hound. 

"Come  out,  old  fellow,"  he  called,  and  he 
heard  the  dog's  tail  thrashing  the  corn  husks. 
"Come  on." 

The  dog  came  to  the  door,  licking  at  the  hand 
of  his  rescuer;  and  Jim  was  about  to  help  him 
to  the  ground  when  a  lantern  flashed  from  a 
corner  of  the  crib.  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 
a  voice  demanded. 

A  white  man  stepped  forward  and  close  be 
hind  him  a  negro  followed.  "What  are  you  do 
ing  here?"  the  white  man  again  demanded. 

"Getting  a  dog  out  of  trouble." 

"Getting  yourself  into  trouble,  you'd  better 
say.  What  right  have  you  to  poke  about  at 
night,  breaking  people's  locks?" 

"None  at  all,  I  am  forced  to  acknowledge.  I 
hardly  thought  of  what  I  was  doing.  My  only 
aim  was  to  help  the  dog." 

"That  will  do  to  tell." 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  And  by  the  way,  what  right 
have  you  to  ask  so  many  questions?  You  don't 
live  here." 


230        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"But  he  does,"  the  white  man  replied,  swing 
ing  his  lantern  toward  the  negro.  "Gabe  Little 
lives  here." 

"That  you,  Gabe?"  Taylor  asked. 

"Yas,  whut  de  white  folks  has  left  o'  me." 

"All  right.  You  are  well  enough  acquainted 
with  me  to  know  that  I  wouldn't  break  a 
lock " 

"But  you  have,  sir,"  the  white  man  insisted. 

"Not  exactly;  but  I  have  drawn  the  staple. 
By  the  way,  whose  dog  is  this?"  The  dog  had 
jumped  out  and  was  frisking  about  Taylor's  legs. 
"It's  a  setter  and  doesn't  belong  to  you,  Gabe." 

"Dat's  fur  me  ter  say,  sah,"  the  negro  sullenly 
replied. 

"That  so?  Well,  I  guess  I'll  keep  him  until 
I  find  out  his  owner." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there!"  the  white  man 
almost  shouted.  "The  question  is,  what  right 
have  you  got  to  go  to  a  man's  house  at  night 
and  break  his  lock?" 

"None,  I  tell  you;  and  I'm  not  only  willing 
to  pay  all  damages,  but  will  answer  to  the  law." 

"The  law!"  and  this  time  he  shouted.  "Law 
to  protect  a  negro's  lock?  Let  us  hear  no  more 
about  the  law.  What  we  want  is  justice,  and 
we're  going  to  have  it,  sooner  or  later." 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?"  the  giant  asked. 
"Oh,  yes,  you  are  Mr.  Mayo,  I  believe.  Well, 
I'll  bid  you  good-night." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


231 


"Wait.  You  have  invaded  this  man's  premises 
and  committed  a  violence." 

"That's  a  fact,  and  I'm  sorry  for  it." 

"Yes,  you  are  now,  but  how  will  you  feel 
about  it  to-morrow?  You'll  forget  all  about  it, 
and  that's  the  way  the  colored  man  is  treated 
in  this  infernal  state.  No,  Gabe,"  he  quickly 
added,  taking  hold  of  the  negro's  arm.  "Put 
it  up.  The  time  ain't  ripe." 

The  negro  had  drawn  a  knife,  opening  it  with 
a  spring,  and  with  a  loud  snap  he  closed  it. 
"We  mustn't  be  the  first  to  strike,  although  they 
break  into  our  houses,"  Mayo  said;  and  then 
speaking  to  Taylor  he  added :  "You  may  go." 

The  giant  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
"I  may  go.  Why,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  fact  that 
I'm  feeling  particularly  happy  to-night,  I'd  mash 
your  mouth  for  that.  I  should  think  that  your 
poor  fool  there  would  teach  you  better  than  to 
talk  to  me  that  way.  But  I'll  be  a  better  friend 
to  you  than  you  have  taught  him  to  be — I'll 
give  you  some  very  useful  advice, 
should  ever  see  me  coming  along  the 
turn  back  or  climb  the 
fence,  for  I  might  not 
be  in  as  good  humor  as 
I'm  in  now." 

He  whistled  and  strode 
away,  with  the  dog  trot 
ting  at  his  heels;  and  by 


If    you 


SHE  INTIMIDATED  MAN  WITH  MANY 
A  SUPERSTITION. 


232        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

the  time  he  gained  the  road    the    occurrence 
had  almost  wholly  passed  out  of  his  mirrd,  so , 
fondly  did  his  heart  leap  at  the  thought  of  the 
letter  in  his  bosom. 

Upon  reaching  a  gate  that  opened  into  his 
meadow,  he  looked  about  and  whistled  for  the 
dog,  but  the  setter  was  gone.  "You  were  howl 
ing  for  your  master,"  the  giant  said,  "and  the 
greatest  service  I  could  do  you  was  to  let  you 
go  to  him.  All  right,  old  fellow,  we  are  both 
happier  for  having  met." 

He  went  into  the  house,  lighted  his  lamp, 
sat  down,  read  the  letter;  he  went  out  and  stood 
under  the  weeping-willow.  "If  I  am  foolish," 
he  said,  "it  is  delicious  to  be  a  fool,  and  God 
pity  the  wise.  But  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  myself.  Yes,  I  do;  I'll  go  over  and  see  old 
Gideon." 

He  considered  not  the  increasing  rain,  the 
dreariness  of  the  road,  the  moanful  wind  in  the 
tops  of  the  trees;  he  felt  that  to  be  alone  was 
to  suppress  a  part  of  his  happiness,  that  his 
light  and  talkative  heart  must  seek  a  hearing 
for  the  babbling  of  its  joy.  So  off  he  strode,  and 
as  he  climbed  over  a  fence,  he  laughingly  jolted 
himself  upon  the  top  rail  to  see  whether  it  would 
break.  It  did  not,  and  he  laughed  to  find  a 
stick  of  old  timber  strong  enough  to  support 
his  weight.  He  called  himself  a  lumbering  fool 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  233 

and  laughed  again,  sitting  there  with  the  rain 
beating  upon  him. 

A  short  distance  down  the  road  was  a  wagon- 
maker's  shop,  and  against  the  outside  wall  a 
ladder  was  leaned.  He  thought  of  the  ladder 
as  he  bore  to  the  edge  of  the  road  to  avoid 
the  deep  ruts  cut  by  the  cotton-wagons,  and 
fearful  that  he  might  pass  under  it  and  thus  invite 
ill  luck,  he  crossed  to  the  other  side.  He  smiled 
at  this  weakness,  instilled  by  the  negroes,  but 
he  did  not  recross  the  road  until  he  had  passed 
far  beyond  the  shop.  The  old  black  mammy 
was  lovable  and  affectionate,  but  she  intimidated 
man  with  many  a  superstition. 


234        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

In  old  Gid's  house  a  light  was  burning,  and 
as  the  giant  drew  near,  he  caught  a  fragment 
of  a  flat-boatman's  song.  He  made  no  noise, 
but  a  dog  inside  scented  his  approach  and  an 
nounced  it  with  a  whimsical  bark.  Gid  opened 
the  door. 

"Why,  here's  Jim  Taylor,  as  wet  as  a  drowned 
bear.  Come  in." 

Sitting  by  the  fire  was  the  Major,  with  his 
coat  off  and  his  shirt  collar  unbuttoned. 

"Why,  James,"  said  he,  "you  are  making  the 
rounds  to-night.  Sit  down  here  and  dry  your 
self.  And  look  at  you,  mud  up  to  your  knees. 
Why  do  you  tramp  about  this  way?  Why  don't 
you  ride?" 

"Too  heavy,"  the  giant  answered. 

"Then,  I  gad,"  Gid  replied,  dragging  his  bench 
from  against  the  wall  and  sitting  down  upon 
it,  "I  know  I'd  ride.  Do  men  ride  for  their  own 
comfort  or  for  the  horse's?  And  what  difference 
do  a  few  extra  pounds  make  to  a  horse?  Why, 
if  you  were  a  horse  somebody  would  ride  you. 
You  are  not  fat,  Jim;  you  are  just  big.  And 
a  horse  doesn't  mind  a  well-proportioned  fellow ; 
it's  the  wabbling  fat  man  that  riles  him.  I 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       235 

owned  a  horse  once  that  would  have  been  will 
ing  to  go  without  corn  a  whole  week  for  a 
chance  to  kick  a  fat  man ;  and  I  put  it  down  as 
an  unreasonable  cruelty  until  I  found  out  that 
he  had  once  belonged  to  a  fellow  that  weighed 
three  hundred  pounds." 

"And  you  afterward  owned  him,"  said  the 
Major,  winking  at  Jim. 

"That's  what  I  said,  John." 

"Now,  Gid,  I  don't  want  to  appear  captious, 
but  are  you  sure  you  ever  owned  a  horse?" 

"I  bought  that  horse,  John.  I  confess  that  it 
was  with  borrowed  money,  but  under  the  law  he 
was  mine.  Ah,  Lord,"  he  sighed,  "self-imposed 
frankness  will  be  gone  when  I  am  taken  from 
you.  And  yet  I  get  no  credit." 

"No  credit!"  cried  the  Major.  "Credit  has 
kept  you  from  starving." 

"Tip-toe,  John;  my  nerves  are  tight-strung. 
Would  have  starved!  A  befitting  reproach 
thrown  at  genius.  Look  up  there!"  he  shout 
ed,  waving  his  hand  at  the  shelf  whereon  were 
piled  his  dingy  books.  "They  never  owned  a 
horse  and  they  lived  on  credit,  but  they  kept 
the  world  from  starving  to  death.  And  this 
reminds  me  that  those  sweet  potatoes  must  be 
about  done.  Your  name  is  among  the  coals, 
Jim;  we've  got  enough  for  all  hands.  Wish 
we  had  some  milk,  but  I  couldn't  get  any.  Dogs 
couldn't  catch  the  cow.  You  hear  of  cows  giv- 


236       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

ing  milk.  Mine  don't — I  gad,  1  have  to  grab  her 
and  take  it  away  from  her;  and  whenever  you 
see  milk  in  my  house  you  may  know  it's  the 
record  of  a  fight  and  that  the  cow  got  the  worst 
of  it." 

Jim  sat  striving  to  think  of  something  to  say. 
The  presence  of  the  Major  had  imposed  a  change 
in  his  forecast.  His  meeting  of  Mayo  and  the 
negro  suddenly  recurred  to  him,  and  quietly  he 
related  the  adventure.  But  the  Major  and  Gid 
were  not  quiet  with  hearing  it. 

"You  ought  to  have  cut  his  throat!"  Gid  ex 
claimed.  "To-morrow  get  your  gun  and  shoot 
him  down — both  of  them,  like  dogs.  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing,  saying  to  a  gentleman, 
'now  you  may  go!'  I  gad,  I'll  go  with  you,  and 
we'll  shoot  'em  down." 

"No,"  said  the  Major,  and  now  with  his  hands 
behind  him  he  was  slowly  pacing  the  floor. 
"That  won't  do." 

"Why  won't  it  do?"  Gid  cried.  "Has  the  time 
come  when  a  white  man  must  stand  all  sorts  of 
abuse  simply  because  he  is  white?  Must  he  stand 
flat-footed  and  swallow  every  insult  that  a  scoun 
drel  is  pleased  to  stuff  into  his  mouth?" 

The  Major  sat  down.  "Let  me  remind  you 
of  something,"  he  said.  "For  the  average  man, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  it  is  enough  to 
have  simple  justice  on  his  side,  but  on  our  side 
we  must  have  more  than  justice.  No  people 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       237 

in  the  world  were  ever  situated  as  we  now  are, 
for  even  by  our  brothers  we  shall  be  deemed 
wrong,  no  matter  which  way  we  turn." 

"Ah,"  Gid  cried,  "then  what's  the  use  of  cal 
culating  our  turn?  If  we  are  to  be  condemned 
anyway,  what's  the " 

"Hold  on  a  moment,"  the  Major  struck  in, 
"and  I  will  tell  you.  Sentiment  is  against  us; 
literature,  with  its  roots  running  back  into  the 
harsh  soil  of  politics,  is  against  us;  and " 

"No  measured  oratory,  John.  Get  down  on 
the  ground." 

"Wait,  I  tell  you!"  the  Major  demanded.  "I 
must  get  to  it  in  my  own  way.  If  your  advice 
were  followed,  we  should  never  be  able  to  elect 
another  president.  The  bloody  shirt  would  wave 
from  every  window  in  the  North,  and  from  the 
northern  point  of  view,  justly  so;  and  reviewed 
even  by  the  disinterested  onlooker,  we  have  not 
been  wholly  in  the  right." 

"The  deuce  we  haven't !"  Gid  shouted,  his  eyes 
bulging. 

"No,  not  wholly;  we  couldn't  be,"  the  Major 
continued.  "As  self-respecting  men,  as  Anglo- 
Saxons,  we  could  not  submit  to  the  domination 
of  former  slaves.  It  was  asking  too  much.  We 
had  ruled  the  nation,  and  though  we  were  finally 
overpowered,  we  could  not  accept  the  negro  as 
a  ruler." 

"John,  I  know  all  that  as  well  as  you  do;  we 


238  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

have  talked  it  many  a  time,  but  what  I  want 
to  get  at  is  this:  Has  a  man  the  right  to  re 
sent  an  insult?  I  was  never  cruel  to  a  negro. 
I  like  him  in  his  place,  like  him  better  than  I' 
do  the  average  white  man,  to  tell  the  plain  truth, 
for  between  him  and  me  there  is  the  tie  of 
irresponsibility,  of  shiftlessness;  but  I  don't  want 
him  to  insult  me;  don't  want  to  stand  any  more 
from  him  than  I  would  from  a  white  man.  You 
spoke  of  not  being  able  to  elect  another  presi 
dent.  Why  should  we  put  up  with  so  much 
merely  to  say  that  a  democrat  is  president?  It 
doesn't  make  much  difference  who's  president, 
foreign  nations  keep  on  insulting  us  just  the 
same.  I'd  like  to  see  a  chief  magistrate  with 
nerve  enough  to  say  to  the  South,  'Boys,  go 
over  and  grab  off  Mexico.'  That's  me." 

The  Major  laughed.  "That's  me,  too,"  he 
replied. 

"We  ought  to  sweeten  this  country  with  Cuba," 
said  Jim,  with  his  mind  on  the  letter  in  his 
bosom. 

"Yes,"  Gid  replied,  raising  his  hand,  "that's 

what  we  ought  to  do,  and "    His  hand  fell, 

and  he  wheeled  about  and  seized  a  poker.  "I'll 
bet  a  thousand  dollars  the  potatoes  are  burned 
up,"  he  said.  "Just  look  there,"  he  added,  rak 
ing  out  the  charred  remains  of  what  was  to  be 
a  feast.  "That's  the  way  it  goes.  The  devil 
titters  when  men  argue.  Well,  it  can't  be 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       239 

helped/'  he  went  on.  "I  did  my  part.  If  we  had 
settled  upon  killing  that  fellow  Mayo,  everything 
would  have  been  all  right.  He  has  not  only 
insulted  us  but  has  robbed  us  as  well." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  Major,  "I'm 
glad  I'm  relieved  of  the  trouble  of  eating." 

"John,  don't  say  that,  for  when  a  Southern 
man  loses  his  appetite  for  roasted  sweet  pota 
toes,  he's  a  degenerate." 

The  Major  was  about  to  say  something,  but 
looking  at  his  watch  he  jumped  up.  "Gracious, 
Gid,  you  not  only  kill  your  own  time  but  murder 
mine.  It's  nearly  two  o'clock." 

"Sit  down,  John.     Don't  be  snatched." 

"Snatched !  Wind-bag,  you  counsel  me  to  blow 
my  life  away.  Hold  your  lamp  out  here  so  that 
I  can  see  to  get  on  my  horse." 

When  Gid  returned  from  the  passage  wherein 
he  had  stood  to  shelter  the  light,  he  found  Jim 
on  the  bench,  with  no  apparent  intention 
of  taking  his  leave;  and  this  he  construed  to 
mean  that  the  giant  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"Out  with  it,  Jimmie,"  he  said,  as  he  put  the 
lamp  upon  the  mantel-piece.  "I'll  sit  down  here 
as  if  it  was  only  early  candle-lighting,  and  let 
you  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"How  do  you  know  I've  got  anything  to  say, 
Uncle  Gideon?" 

"How  do  I  know  when  a  dog  itches?  I  see 
him  scratch.  You  have  been  sitting  there  in  an 


240       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

itching  silence  and  now  you  begin  to  scratch. 
You  are  more  patient  than  a  dog,  for  you  don't 
scratch  until  you  have  itched  for  some  time. 
Let  the  fur  fly,  Jimmie." 

Jim  laughed,  raised  his  leg  and  clasped  his 
hands  over  his  knee.  "Uncle  Gideon,  I  reckon 
I'm  the  happiest  man  in  Cranceford  County." 

The  old  man  sat  leaning  back  against  the  wall. 
His  coat  was  off  and  under  his  suspenders  he 
had  hooked  his  thumbs.  "Go  on,  Jimmie;  I'm 
listening." 

"She  has  written  another  letter Did  Tom 

tell  you  anything?"  he  broke  off. 

"Did  Tom  ever  tell  me  anything?  Did  Tom 
ever  tell  anybody  anything?  Did  he  ever  know 
anything  to  tell?" 

"She  has  written  another  letter  and  in  it  she 
confesses — I  don't  know  how  to  say  it,  Uncle 
Gideon." 

"Well,  tell  me  and  I'll  say  it  for  you.  Con 
fesses  that  she  can  be  happy  with  no  one  but 
you.  Go  on." 

"Who  told  you?    Did  Mrs.  Cranceford?" 

"My  dear  boy,  did  Mrs.  Cranceford  ever  tell 
me  anything  except  to  keep  off  the  grass?  No 
body  has  told  me  anything.  Confesses  that  you 
are  the  only  man  that  can  make  her  happy.  Now 
shoot  your  dye-stuff." 

"But  that's  all  there  is.  She  says  that  her 
heart  will  never  have  a  home  until  my  love  builds 
a  mansion  for  it." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  241 

"Jimmie,  if  the  highest  market  price  for  a  fool 
was  one  hundred  dollars,  you'd  fetch  two  hun 
dred." 

"Why?  Because  I  believe  her  when  she  talks 
that  way — when  she  gives  me  to  understand  that 
she  loves  me?" 

"No ;  but  because  you  didn't  believe  all  along 
that  she  loved  you." 

"How  could  I  when  she  refused  to  marry  me 
and  married  another  man?" 

"That  marriage  is  explained.  You've  seen  the 
letter  she  wrote  the  night  before  she  went  away, 
haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  her  mother  showed  it  to  me." 

"I  didn't  read  it,"  said  Gid,  "but  the  Major 
gave  me  the  points,  and  I  know  that  she  mar 
ried  that  fellow  believing  that  she  was  saving 
his  soul." 

"Yes,  I  read  that,"  said  Jim,  "but  I  didn't  know 
whether  she  meant  it  or  not.  I  reckon  I  was 
afraid  to  believe  it." 

"Well,  I  know  it  to  be  a  fact — know  it  be 
cause  I  know  her  nature.  She's  just  crank 
enough " 

"Don't  say  that,"  Jim  protested,  unclasping 
his  hands  from  his  knee  and  straightening  up. 
"Don't  call  her  a  crank  when  she's  an  angel." 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear  boy,  but  heaven 
is  full  of  the  right  sort  of  cranks.  Who  serves 
God  deeper  than  the  religious  crank,  and  if  he's 


242  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

not  to  be  rewarded,  who  is?  By  crank  I  don't 
mean  a  weak-minded  person;  I  come  nearer 
meaning  a  genius." 

"I  reckon  you  mean  all  right,"  the  giant 
agreed;  and  after  pondering  in  silence  he  asked: 
"Do  you  reckon  she  would  marry  me?" 

"I  know  it  And  why  not?  You  are  a  gen 
tleman  and  a  devilish  good-looking  fellow.  Why, 
any  woman  interested  in  a  fine  stock  sh6w  would 
be  proud  of  you."  . 

At  this  the  giant  rubbed  his  hands  together 
and  softly  chuckled;  but  sobering,  he  said  that 
he  could  never  hope  to  equal  her  in  thought  and 
quickness  of  expression,  though  by  reading  he 
would  make  an  effort  to  attain  that  end. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  Jimmie;  and  don't 
you  fool  yourself  that  books  are  everything. 
They  smooth  knots,  but  they  don't  make  tim 
ber.  Oh,  you  are  smart  enough — for  a  woman." 

"I'm  not  an  idiot,"  said  the  giant.  "Some 
times  I  can  talk  without  any  trouble,  and  then 
again  I  can't  say  a  thing.  It's  different  with 
you." 

The  old  man's  egotism  awoke — it  never  more 
than  dozed.  "Jimmie,"  said  he,  "it  is  violating 
no  compact  to  tell  you  that  I'm  no  common 
man.  Other  men  have  a  similar  opinion  of  them 
selves  and  are  afraid  to  spit  it  out,  but  I'm  bold 
as  well  as  wise.  I  know  that  my  opinion  doesn't 
go  for  much,  for  I'm  too  good-humored,  too  ap- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  243 

proachable.  The  blitheness  of  my  nature  invites 
familiarity.  You  go  to  a  house  and  make  too 
much  of  the  children,  and  the  first  thing  you 
know  they'll  want  to  wallow  on  you  all  the  time. 
Well,  I  have  made  too  much  of  the  children  of 
the  world,  and  they  wallow  on  me.  But  I  pinch 
them  sometimes  and  laugh  to  hear  them  squeal. 
There's  only  one  person  that  I'm  afraid  of — 
Mrs.  Cranceford.  She  chills  me  and  keeps  me 
on  the  frozen  dodge.  I  always  feel  that  she  is 
reading  me,  and  that  makes  me  more  of  a  rascal 
— trying  to  give  her  something  that  she  can't 
read.  Look  here,  if  we  expect  to  get  any  sleep 
we'd  better  be  at  it." 

"You  go  to  bed,  Uncle  Gideon ;  I'm  going  to 
sit  up." 

"All  right;  sit  there  as  long  as  you  please." 
The  old  fellow  got  up,  and  walking  stiffly  went 
to  the  window,  drew  aside  the  red  calico  curtain 
and  looked  out.  "Don't  see  much  promise  of  a 
clear-up,"  he  said.  "Not  a  star  in-  sight.  I 
always  dread  the  rainy  season;  it  makes  people 
look  sad,  and  I  want  to  see  them  bright — I  am 
most  agreeable  to  them  when  they're  bright. 
Still,  I  understand  that  nothing  is  more  tiresome 
than  eternal  sunshine.  I  wonder  if  I  locked  the 
smokehouse,"  he  went  on,  turning  from  the  win 
dow.  "But,  come  to  think,  I  don't  believe  I've 
locked  it  since  about  a  week  ago,  when  some 
rascal  slipped  in  and  stole  nearly  all  my  hams 


and  a  bushel  of  meal.  I 
gad,  my  old  joints  work 
like  rusty  hinges.  Well, 
I'fl  lie  down  now.  Good 
night,  Jimmie.  Don't  slip 
off  before  breakfast." 

The  giant  did  not  hear 
him.     He  sat  leaning  for 
ward,  gazing  at  the  cliffs, 
the  mountains,  the  valleys 
in  the  fire.     The  rain  had 
ceased,  but  now  and  then 
came  a  dashing  shower,  like 
a  scouting  party,  a  guerrilla 
band  sweeping  through  the  dark. 
To  the  muser  there  was  no  time; 
time    had    dribbled   out   and    reverie 
had  taken  its  place.    The  fire  was  dying. 

HE  SAT  LEANING  FORWARD.      Re    gaw    thg    re(J    diffs    grQW     gfay    ajQng 

the  edges,  age  creeping  over  the  rocks;  he  saw 
a  mountain  fall  into  a  whitening  valley,  and  he 
looked  up.  It  was  daylight.  He  went  to  the 
door  and  looked  out,  and  far  across  the  river 
the  sun  was  rising  from  a  bath  of  steam. 

"You  here  yet,  Jimmie?"  The  bed  loudly 
creaked,  and  the  giant  looking  about,  found  old 
Gid  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  couch,  rubbing 
his  eyes.  "Don't  go,  for  we'll  have  breakfast 
now  in  a  minute.  I  do  think  I  can  dream  more 
foolish  things  than  any  man  that  ever  lived, 

m 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  245 

Now,  what  could  have  put  it  into  my  mind  to 
dream  that  I  was  born  with  one  leg  and  was 
trying  at  a  county  fair  to  swap  it  off  for  two? 
Well,  I  hear  the  old  woman  setting  the  table 
out  there.  Wait  till  I  jump  into  my  clothes  and 
I'll  pour  a  gourd  of  water  for  you  to  wash  your 
face  and  hands.  Had  a  wash-basin  round  here 
somewhere,  but  don't  know  what  became  of  it. 
Had  intended  to  get  another,  but  have  been 
so  busy.  But  I'll  tell  you  there's  nothing  like  a 
good  wash  under  a  pouring  gourd.  How's  your 
appetite  this  morning?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  you  may  find  it  when  you  sniff  old 
Liza's  corn  cakes.  Now  what  the  deuce  became 
of  that  other  suspender?  We  used  to  call  them 
galluses  in  my  day.  And  now  where  is  that  in 
fernal  gallus?  Beats  anything  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life.  Ah,  there  it  is,  over  by  the  window.  But 
how  it  could  have  jumped  off  I  don't  know. 
Now  let  me  shove  into  my  old  shoes  and  I'll 
be  with  you." 

Out  in  the  yard,  in  a  fabulous  net  of  gilded 
mist  they  stood,  to  bathe  under  the  spouting 
gourd,  the  mingling  of  a  new  day's  poetry  and 
the  shiftlessness  of  an  old  man.  "Stream  of 
silver  in  the  gold  of  a  resurrected  sun,"  he  said, 
bareheaded  and  blinking.  "Who'd  want  a  wash- 
pan?  I  gad,  Jimmie,  folks  are  forgetting  how 


246  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

to  live.  They  are  putting  too  much  weight  on 
what  they  can  buy  for  money,  unmindful  of  the 
fact  that  the  best  things  of  this  life  are  free. 
Look  at  that  gourd,  old,  with  a  sewed-up  crack 
in  it,  and  yet  to  my  mind  it  serves  its  purpose 
better  than  a  china  basin.  Well,  let's  go  in 
now  and  eat  a  bite.  I'm  always  hungry  of  a 
morning.  An  old  fellow  is  nearer  a  boy  when 
he  first  gets  up,  you  know;  but  he  grows  old 
mighty  fast  after  he's  had  breakfast." 

The  giant,  saying  never  a  word,  followed  him, 
the  loose  boards  of  the  passageway  between  the 
two  sections  of  the  house  creaking  and  groaning 
as  he  trod  upon  them;  and  coming  to  the  door 
he  had  to  stoop,  so  low  had  it  been  cut. 

"That's  right,  Jimmie,  duck  or  you'll  lay  your 
self  out.  I  gad,  the  world's  full  of  traps  set  for 
big  fellows.  Now  sit  down  there  and  fall  to. 
Don't  feel  very  brash  this  morning,  do  you?" 

"I  feel  first-rate,"  Jim  answered,  sitting  down. 

"Youth  and  love  mixed,"  said  the  old  man, 
placing  himself  at  the  head  of  the  board.  "And 
ah,  Lord,  when  we  grow  out  of  one  and  forget 
the  other,  there's  not  much  left  to  live  for.  I'd 
rather  be  a  young  fellow  in  love  than  to  be  an 
emperor.  Help  yourself  to  a  slab  of  that  fried 
ham.  She'll  bring  the  coffee  pretty  soon.  Here 
she  comes  now.  Waiting  for  you,  Aunt  Liza. 
Have  some  hoe-cake,  Jimmie.  Yes,  sir;  youth 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       247 

and  love  constitute  the  world,  and  all  that  fol 
lows  is  a  mere  makeshift.  Thought  may  come, 
but  thought,  after  all,  is  but  a  dull  compromise, 
Jimmie,  a  cold  potato  instead  of  a  hot  roll.  Love 
is  noon,  and  wisdom  at  its  best  is  only  evening. 
There  are  some  quince  preserves  in  that  jar. 
Help  yourself.  Thought  about  her  all  night, 
didn't  you?" 

"I  think  about  her  all  the  time,  Uncle  Gid 
eon." 

"And  Jimmie,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  the 
world  should  think  about  her  after  a  while. 
That  woman's  a  genius." 

"I  hope  not,"  the  giant  replied,  looking  up, 
and  in  his  voice  was  a  note  of  distress,  and  in 
his  eyes  lay  the  shadow  of  a  fear. 
*  "And  why  not,  Jimmie?" 

"Because  if  she  should  turn  out  to  be  a  genius 
she  won't -marry  me." 

"That's  where  your  perception  is  broken  off 
at  the  end,  Jimmie.  In  the  matter  of  marriage 
genius  is  mighty  skittish  of  genius — it  seeks  the 
constancy  of  the  sturdy  and  commonplace.  I'll 
try  a  dip  of  those  preserves.  Now  let  me  see. 
After  breakfast  you'd  better  lie  down  on  my 
bed  and  take  a  nap." 

"No,  I  must  go.  The  Major  is  going  over  to 
Brantly  to-day  and  I  want  him  to  bring  me  a  box 
of  cartridges.  I  forgot  to  tell  him  last  night." 

"Oh,  you're  thinking  about  Mayo,  eh?" 


248  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  but  he  did  cross  my  mind. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  waylay  me  some 
night,  and  I  don't  want  to  stand  out  in  the 
road  and  dance  while  he's  shooting  at  me." 

"That's  right,"  said  the  old  man.  "A  fellow 
cuts  a  mighty  sorry  figure  dancing  under  such 
circumstances.  I've  tried  it." 

He  shoved  his  chair  back  from  the  table  and 
Jim  got  up  to  take  his  leave.  "Look  out  for  the 
door,  Jinimie.  Duck  as  you  go  under  or  it  will 
lay  you  out.  Traps  set  all  through  life  for  fel 
lows  of  your  size." 

Jim  was  not  oppressed  with  weariness  as  he 
strode  along  the  highway,  for  in  the  crisp  air 
a  tonic  was  borne,  but  loss  of  sleep  had  made 
his  senses  dreamy,  and  all  things  about  him  were 
touched  with  the  spirit  of  unreality — the  dead 
leaves  fluttering  on  the  underbrush,  the  purple 
mist  rising  from  the  fields,  the  water-mirrors 
flashing  in  the  road;  and  so  surrendered  was  he 
to  a  listless  brooding,  forgetful  even  that  he 
moved  along,  that  he  did  not  notice,  up  the 
road,  a  man  leap  aside  into  the  woods.  The 
man  hid  behind  a  tree,  with  his  eye  on  the  giant 
and  with  the  barrel  of  a  pistol  pressed  hard 
against  the  bark.  Jim  passed  on,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  looking  down ;  and  when  a  clump 
of  bushes,  red  with  frost-dyed  leaves,  hid  him 
from  view,  Mayo  came  out  from  behind  the 
tree  and  resumed  his  journey  down  the  road. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       249 

The  Major  had  mounted  his  horse  at  the  gate 
and  was  on  the  point  of  riding'  forth  when  Jim 
came  up.  "Why,  good-morning,  James,"  the 
old  gentleman  heartily  greeted  him.  "Have 
you  just  crawled  out  of  that  old  man's  kennel? 
I  see  that  the  old  owl  must  have  kept  you  up 
all  night.  Why,  sir,  if  I  were  to  listen  to  him 
I'd  never  get  another  wink  of  sleep." 

"I  kept  myself  up,"  said  the  giant;  and  then 
he  added:  "I  wanted  to  see  you  this  morning, 
not  very  bad,  but  just  to  ask  you  to  get  me  a  box 
of  forty-fours  when  you  go  to  Brantly  fo-day." 

"I'm  glad  to  find  you  so  thoughtful,"  said 
the  Major.  "And  I  want  to  tell  you  right  now 
that  you've  got  to  look  out  for  yourself.  But 
staying  up  all  night  is  no  way  to  begin.  Go  on 
into  Tom's  room  and  take  a  nap." 

The  Major  whistled  as  he  rode  along,  not 
for  want  of  serious  reflection,  for  he  could  easily 
have  reached  out  and  drawn  in  trouble,  but  be 
cause  the  sharp  air  stirred  his  spirits.  Nowhere 
was  there  a  cloud — a  speckless  day  in  the  middle 
of  a  week  that  had  threatened  to  keep  the  sky 
besmirched.  Roving  bands  of  negro  boys  were 
hunting  rabbits  in  the  fields,  with  dogs  that 
leaped  high  in  low  places  where  dead  weeds  stood 
brittle.  The  pop-eyed  hare  was  startled  from  his 
bed  among  brambly  vines,  and  fierce  shouts 
arose  like  the  remembered  yell  of  a  Confederate 
troop.  The  holidays  were  near,  the  crops  were 


250 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


gathered,  the  winter's  wood  was  up,  the  hunting 
season  open,  but  no  negro  fired  a  gun.  At  this 
time  of  the  year,  steamboatmen,  and  tavern-keep-, 
ers  in  the  villages,  were  wont  to  look  to  Titus, 
Eli,  Pompey,  Sam,  Caesar  and  Bill  for  their 
game,  and  it  was  not  an  unusual  sight  to  see 
them  come  loaded  down  with  rabbits  and  quails 
caught  in  traps,  but  now  they  sat  sullen  over  the 
fire  by  day,  but  were  often  met  prowling  about 
at  night.  This  crossed  the  Major's  mind  and 
drove  away  his  cheerful  whistling;  and  he  was 
deeply  thinking  when  someone  riding  in  haste 
reined  in  a  horse  abreast  with  him.  Looking 
up  he  recognized  the  priest. 

"Why,  good  morning,  Mr.  Brennon ;  how  are 
you?" 

"Well,  I  thank  you.     How  far  do  you  go?" 
"To  Brantly." 

"That's  fortunate,"  said  the  priest, 
"for  I  am  selfish  enough  to  let  you 
shorten  the  journey  for  me." 

"I  can't  do  that,"  the 
/        x-       Major  laughed,  "but  we 
—      can    divide    it.     Been 


'ROVING   BANDS    OF    NFHRn    ROYS    WF.TJF    nnKTTNO    RAT1RITS 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        251 

some  time  since  I've  seen  you,  Mr.  Brennon." 

"Yes;   I  have  been  very  busy." 

"And  successfully  so,  I  suppose." 

"I  am  not  in  a  position  to  complain,"  said  the 
priest. 

"By  the  way,  will  you  answer  a  few  ques 
tions?" 

"Gladly,  if  they're  answerable." 

"I  think  they  are.  Now,  the  negroes  that 
come  into  your  communion  tell  you  many  things, 
drop  idle  gossip  that  may  mean  much.  Did  any 
of  them  ever  drop  a  hint  of  preparations  which 
their  brethren  may  or  may  not  be  making  to 
demand  some  unreasonable  concession  from  the 
white  people  of  this  community?" 

"What  I  have  seen  I  am  free  to  relate  to  you," 
the  priest  answered,-  "but  as  to  what  has  been 
told — well,  that  is  quite  another  matter.  I  have 
seen  no  preparations,  but  you  doubtless  remem 
ber  a  conversation  we  had  some  time  ago,  and 
on  that  occasion  I  think  we  agreed  that  we  might 
have  trouble  sooner  or  later." 

"Yes,  we  were  agreed  upon  that  point,"  the 
Major  replied,  "but  neither  of  us  professed  to 
see  trouble  close  at  hand.  For  some  time  I 
have  heard  it  rumored  that  the  negroes  are 
meeting  at  night  to  drill,  but  I  have  paid  but 
little  attention,  giving  them  credit  for  more  sense 
than  to  believe  that  their  uprising  could  be  more 
than  a  short,  and,  to  themselves,  a  disastrous, 


252       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

struggle;  but  there  is  one  aspect  that  impresses 
me,  the  fact  that  they  are  taking  no  notice  of 
the  coming  of  Christmas;  for  when  this  is  the 
case  you  must  know  that  the  negro's  nature 
must  have  undergone  a  complete  change.  I 
don't  quite  understand  it.  Why,  sir,  at  present 
they  can  find  no  possible  excuse  for  revolt.  The 
crops  are  gathered  and  they  can  make  no  de 
mand  for  higher  wages;  no  election  is  near  and 
they  can't  claim  a  political  cause  for  disaffection. 
If  they  want  better  pay  for  their  labor,  why 
didn't  they  strike  in  the  midst  of  the  cotton- 
picking?  That  would  have  been  their  time  for 
trouble,  if  that's  what  they  want." 

"Perhaps  they  hadn't  money  enough  to  buy 
equipment,  guns  and  ammunition,"  the  priest 
suggested.  "Perhaps  they  needed  the  money 
that  the  gathering  of  the  crops  would  bring 
them." 

The  Major  looked  at  him.  "I  hadn't  thought 
of  that,"  he  said.  "But  surely  the  negroes  have 
sense  enough  to  know  that  the  whites  would 
exterminate  them  within  a  week." 

It  was  some  time  before  Father  Brennon  re 
plied-  His  deliberation  led  the  Major  to  be 
lieve  that  he  would  speak  from  his  abundant 
resources;  and  the  planter  listened  eagerly  with 
his  head  turned  to  one  side  and  with  his  hand 
behind  his  ear.  "It  is  possible,"  the  priest  be 
gan,  "that  the  negro  had  been  harangued  to  the 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  253 

conviction  that  he  is  to  begin  a  general  revolt 
against  capital,  that  labor  organizations  every 
where  will  rise  up  when  they  hear  that  he  has 
been  bold  enough  to  fire  his  gun." 

The  Major's  shoulders  stiffened.  "Sir,  if  you 
have  known  this,  why  haven't  you  as  a  white 
man  and  a  Southern  gentleman  told  us  of  it? 
Why  haven't  you  warned  us?" 

The  priest  smiled.  "Your  resentment  is  just," 
said  he.  "But  the  truth  is,  it  was  not  formu 
lated  as  an  opinion  until  late  last  night.  I  called 
at  your  house  this  morning  and  was  told  that 
you  had  set  out  for  the  county-seat.  And  I 
have  overtaken  you." 

The  Major  reined  up  his  horse.  Both  horses 
stopped.  "Mr.  Brennon,  you  are  a  gentleman, 
sir.  My  hand." 

They  shook  hands  and  rode  on.  The  Major 
was  deep  in  thought.  "It  has  all  been  brought 
about  by  that  scoundrel  Mayo,"  he  said  at  last. 
"He  has  instilled  a  most  deadly  poison  into  the 
minds  of  those  people.  I  will  telegraph  the  gov 
ernor  and  request  him  to  send  the  state  militia 
into  this  community.  The  presence  of  the  sol 
diers  will  dissolve  this  threatened  outbreak ;  and 
by  the  blood,  sir,  Mayo  shall  be  convicted  of 
treason  against  the  state  and  hanged  on  the 
public  square  in  Brantly.  And  that  will  be  an 
end  of  it." 

The  priest  said  nothing,  and  after  a  time  the 


254       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

Major  asked:  "How  are  you  getting  on  with 
your  work?" 

"I  am  greatly  encouraged,  and  I  wish  I  had 
more  time." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  the  church  can  save 
the  negro.  Do  you  know  a  negro  named  Bob 
Hackett?" 

"Yes;  he  was  a  worthless  politician,  but 
they  tell  me  that  he  has  withdrawn  from  active 
politics  and  gone  to  work.  What  about  him?" 

"He  is  now  a  communicant  of  the  church,"  the 
priest  answered.  "He  acknowledges  a  moral 
authority;  and  I  make  bold  to  say  that  should 
trouble  come,  he  will  take  no  part  in  it.  And 
I  make  still  bolder  to  say  that  the  church,  the 
foster  mother  of  the  soul  of  man,  can  in  time 
smooth  all  differences  and  establish  peace  and 
brotherly  regard  between  the  white  man  and  the 
negro.  The  Ethiopian  cannot  change  his  skin, 
but  true  religion  whitens  his  soul  and  makes  him 
our  brother." 

"Your  sentiment  is  good,"  replied  the  Major, 
"but  religion  must  recognize  an  impossibility. 
The  white  man  and  the  negro  can  never  hold 
each  other  in  brotherly  regard.  Never." 

"Don't  say  never,  Major.  Men  pass  from 
fixed  prejudices;  the  church  is  eternal  in  its 
purpose.  Don't  say  never." 

"Well,  then,  sir,"  cried  the  Major,  standing 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        255 

in  his  stirrups,  "I  will  not  say  never;  1  will 
fix  a  time,  and  it  shall  be  when  the  pyramids, 
moldered  to  dust,  are  blown  up  and  down  the 
valley  of  the  Nile." 

He  let  himself  down  with  a  jolt,  and  onward 
in  silence  they  rode.  And  now  from  a  rise  of 
ground  the  village  of  Brantly  was  in  sight.  The 
priest  halted.  "I  turn  back  here,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Brennon,"  the  Major  replied,  "between 
you  and  me  the  question  of  creed  should  not 
arise.  You  are  a  white  man  and  a  gentleman. 
My  hand,  sir." 


256       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Brantly  long  ago  was  a  completed  town.  For 
the  most  part  it  was  built  of  wood,  and  its  ap 
pearance  of  decay  was  so  general  and  so  even 
as  to  invite  the  suspicion  that  nearly  all  its  build 
ings  had  been  erected  on  the  same  day.  In 
the  center  of  the  town  was  the  public  square, 
and  about  it  were  ranged  the  business  houses, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  stood  the  court  house  with 
its  paint  blistered  and  its  boards  warping.  It 
was  square,  with  a  hall  and  offices  below. 
Above  was  the  court  room,  and  herein  was  sfill 
heard  the  dying  echo  of  true  oratory.  On  the 
top  of  this  building,  once  the  pride  of  the  coun 
ty,  was  a  frail  tower,  and  in  it  was  a  clock,  al 
ways  slow.  It  was  never  known  .to  record  an 
hour  until  that  hour  had  long  since  been  due. 
Sometimes  it  would  save  up  its  strokes  upon 
the  bell  until  fifty  or  more  were  accumulated,  and 
then,  in  the  midst  of  an  intense  jury  trial,  it 
would  slowly  turn  them  loose.  A  mathemati 
cian,  a  man  who  kept  the  dates  of  late  and  early 
frosts,  had  it  in  his  record  that  the  hammer 
struck  the  bell  sixty-eight  times  on  the  afternoon 


THE  COURT  HOUSE. 


when  John  Mafry  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged, 
and  that  the  judge  had  to  withhold  his  awful 
words  until  this  flood  of  gathered  time  was 
poured  out.  Once  or  twice  the  county  court 
had  appropriated  money  to  have  the  clock 
brought  back  within  the  bounds  of  reason,  but  a 
more  pressing  need  had  always  served  to  swal 
low  up  the  sum  thus  set  aside. 

A  railway  had  skipped  Brantly  by  ten  long  and 
sandy  miles,  and  a  new  town  springing  up  about 
a  station  on  the  line,  clamored  for  the  county 


17 


257 


258  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

seat;  and  until  this  question  was  finally  settled 
old  Brantly  could  not  look  with  confidence  to 
ward  any  improvement.  Indeed,  some  of  her 
business  men  stood  ready  to  desert  her  in  the 
event  that  she  should  be  beaten  by  the  new 
town,  and  while  all  were  bravely  willing  to  con 
tinue  the  fight  against  the  up-start,  every  one 
was  slow  to  hazard  his  money  to  improve  his 
home  or  his  place  of  business.  Whenever  a 
young  man  left  Brantly  it  was  predicted  that  he 
would  come  to  no  good,  and  always  there  came 
a  report  that  he  was  gambling,  or  drinking  him 
self  to  death.  The  mere  fact  that  he  desired  to 
leave  the  old  town  was  fit  proof  of  his  general 
unworthiness  to  succeed  in  life. 

The  Major  rode  into  town,  nodding  at  the 
loungers  whom  he  saw  on  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  and  tying  his  horse  to  the  rack  on  the 
square,  went  straightway  to  the  shop  of  the  only 
hardware  dealer  and  asked  for  cartridges. 

"My  stock  is  running  pretty  low,"  said  the 
dealer,  wrapping  up  the  paste-board  box.  "I've 
sold  more  lately  than  I  ever  sold  in  any  one  sea 
son  before,  and  yet  there's  no  game  in  the  mar 
ket." 

The  Major  whistled.  "Who  has  been  buying 
them?"  he  asked. 

"Come  to  think  of  it  I  have  sold  the  most  to 
a  Frenchman  named  Larnage — lives  over  on  the 
Potter  place,  I  believe.  And  that  reminds  me 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       259 

that  I'll  have  a  new  lot  in  to-day,  ordered  for 
him." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  that  fellow?" 
the  Major  asked. 

"Not  very  much." 

"Well,  don't  let  him  have  another  cartridge. 
Keep  all  you  get.  We'll  need  them  to  protect 
life  and  property." 

"What!      I  don't  understand." 

"I  haven't  time  to  explain  now,  for  I'm  re 
minded  that  I  must  go  at  once  to  the  telegraph 
office.  Come  over  to  the  court-house." 

The  Major  sent  a  dispatch  to  the  governor  and 
then  went  to  the  county  clerk's  office  where  he 
found  the  hardware  dealer  and  a  number  of  men 
waiting  for  him.  The  report  that  he  was  charged 
with  serious  news  was  already  spread  about;  and 
when  he  entered,  the  clerk  of  the  county  court, 
an  old  fellow  with  an  ink-blot  on  his  bald  head, 
came  forward  with  an  inquiry  as  to  what  had 
been  meant  when  the  Major  spoke  of  the  cart 
ridges.  The  Major  explained  his  cause  for 
alarm.  Then  followed  a  brief  silence,  and  then 
the  old  fellow  who  kept  the  records  of  the  frosts 
and  the  clock,  spoke  up  with  the  assertion  that 
for  some  time  he  had  expected  it.  "Billy,"  he 
said,  speaking  to  the  clerk,  "I  told  you  the  other 
day  that  we  were  going  to  have  trouble  mighty 
soon.  Don't  you  recollect?" 

"Don't  believe  I  do,  Uncle  Parker." 


260       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"But  I  said  so  as  sure  as  you  are  standing 
there  this  minute.  Let  me  try  a  little  of  your  to 
bacco."  The  clerk  handed  him  a  plug,  and  bit 
ing  off  a  chew,  the  old  man  continued:  "Yes, 
sir,  I've  had  it  in  mind  for  a  long  time." 

"Everybody  has  talked  more  or  less  about  it," 
said  the  clerk. 

"Oh,  I  know  they  have,  Billy,  but  not  p'intedly, 
as  I  have.  Yes,  sir,  bound  to  come." 

"The  thing  to  do  is  to  over-awe  them,"  said 
the  Major.  "I  have  just  telegraphed  the 
governor  to  send  the  militia  down  here.  And 
by  the  way,  that  fellow  Mayo  ought  to  be  ar 
rested  without  delay.  Billy,  is  the  sheriff  in  his 
office?" 

"No,  Major,  he's  gone  down  to  Sassafras  to 
break  up  a  gang  of  negro  toughs  that  have 
opened  a  gambling  den.  He'll  be  back  this 
evening  and  I'll  have  the  warrant  ready  for  him 
by  the  time  he  gets  back.  Any  of  us  can  swear 
it  out — reckon  all  our  names  better  go  to  it." 

"Yes,"  the  Major  agreed,  "we'd  better  observe 
the  formalities  of  the  law.  The  militia  will  undo 
all  that  has  been  done,  and  as  for  the  fellow  that 
brought  about  the  inquietude,  we'll  see  him 
hanged  in  front  of  this  door." 

Old  man  Parker,  who  kept  the  records,  nudged 
his  neighbor  and  said:  "Inquietude  is  the  word. 
I  told  my  wife  last  night,  says  I,  'Nancy,  when 
ever  you  want  the  right  word,  go  to  John  Crance- 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       261 

ford.'  That's  what  I  said,  Major;  and  I  might 
have  said  go  to  your  father  if  he  was  alive,  for 
he  stood  'way  up  among  the  pictures,  I  tell  you ; 
and  I  reckon  I  knowd  him  as  well  as  any  man 
in  the  county.  I  ricollect  his  duel  with  Dab- 
ney." 

"He  was  to  have  fought  a  man  named  Ander 
son  Green,"  replied  the  Major,  "but  a  compro 
mise  was  effected." 

"Yes,"  said  Parker,  "Green's  the  man  I  was 
tryin'  to  think  of.  It  was  Shelton  that  fought 
Dabney." 

"Shelton  fought  Whitesides,"  said  the  Major. 

The  men  began  to  titter,  "Well,  then,  who  was 
it  fought  Dabney?" 

"Never  heard  of  Dabney,"  the  Major  answered. 

"Well,  I  have,  and  somebody  fought  him,  but 
it  makes  no  difference.  So,  in  your  father's  case 
a  compromise  was  effected.  The  right  word 
again;  and  that's  what  makes  me  say  to  my 
wife,  'Nancy,  whenever  you  want  the  right  word 
go  to  John  Cranceford;'  and,  as  I  said  a  while 
ago,  your  father  either,  for  I  knowd  him  as  well 
as  any  man,  and  was  present  at  the  time  he 
bought  a  flat-boat  nigger  named  Pratt  Boyce." 

"My  father  was  once  forced  to  sell,  but  he 
never  bought  a  negro,"  the  Major  replied. 

"That  so?  Well,  now,  who  was  it  bought 
Pratt  Boyce?  You  fellers  shut  up  your  snortin'. 
I  reckon  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about." 


2«2  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

The  county  judge  and  several  other  men  came 
in  and  the  talk  concerning  the  threatened  negro 
outbreak  was  again  taken  up.  "It  seems  rather 
singular,"  said  the  Judge,  "that  we  should  worry 
through  a  storm  of  politics  and  escape  any  very 
serious  bloodshed  and  reach  a  climax  after  all 
these  years.  Of  course  when  two  races  of  peo 
ple,  wholly  at  variance  in  morals  and  social 
standing,  inhabit  the  same  community,  there  is 
always  more  or  less  danger,  still  I  don't  think 
that  the  negroes  have  so  little  sense " 

"Ah,  the  point  I  made,"  the  Major  broke  in. 
"But  you  see  a  labor  plank  has  been  added  to 
their  platform  of  grievance." 

Parker  nudged  his  neighbor.  "I  says,  says  I, 
'Nancy,  John  Cranceford  for  the  right  word.' " 

"There's  something  in  that,"  the  Judge  re 
plied.  "Nothing  can  be  madder  than  misled 
labor.  We  have  been  singularly  free  from  that 
sort  of  disturbances,  but  I  suppose  our  time 
must  come  sooner  or  later.  But  I  think  the 
militia  will  have  a  good  effect  so  far  as  the  ne 
groes  themselves  are  concerned.  But  of  course 
if  the  soldiers  come  and  the  trouble  blows  over 
without  any  demonstration  whatever,  there  will 
be  considerable  dissatisfaction  among  the  people 
as  to  why  such  a  step  should  have  been  taken. 
Uncle  Parker,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  record- 
keeper,  "think  we'll  have  much  cold  weather  this 
winter?" 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       263 

Parker  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  knew 
that  glibness  would  argue  against  due  medita 
tion.  "I  see  a  good  many  signs,"  he  slowly 
answered.  "Hornets  hung  their  nests  on  the 
low  limbs  of  the  trees,  and  there  are  other  in 
dications,  still  it  largely  depends  on  the  condition 
of  the  wind.  Sometimes  a  change  of  wind 
knocks  out  all  calculations,  still,  I  feel  assured 
in  saying  that  we  are  goin'  to  have  a  good  deal 
of  frost  first  and  last;  but  if  the  militia  don't  get 
here  in  time  we  are  mighty  apt  to  have  it  hotter 
before  we  have  it  colder.  Last  night  while  I  sat 
at  home  by  the  fire  a  smokin'  of  my  pipe,  and 
Nancy  a-settin'  there  a-nittin'  a  pair  of  socks  for 
a  preacher,  I  looks  up  and  I  says,  'there's  goin' 
to  be  trouble  in  this  community  before  many 
changes  of  the  moon,'  I  says,  and  I  want  at  all 
surprised  to-day  when  the  Major  here  come 
a-ridin'  in  with  his  news.  Don't  reckon  any  of 
you  ricollect  the  time  we  come  mighty  nigh  havin' 
a  nigger  uprisin'  before  the  war.  But  we  nipped 
it  in  the  bud ;  and  I  know  they  hung  a  yaller  fel 
ler  that  cost  me  fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  gold." 

The  old  man  was  so  pleased  to  find  himself 
listened  to  by  so  large  a  company  that  he  squared 
himself  for  a  longer  discourse  upon  happenings 
antedating  the  memory  of  any  one  present,  but 
attention  split  off  and  left  him  talking  to  a  neigh 
bor,  who  long  ago  was  weary  of  the  sage's  rec 
ollections.  Wisdom  lends  its  conceit  to  the 


264       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

aged,  and  Parker  was  very  old;  and  when  his 
neighbor  gave  him  but  a  tired  ear,  he  turned  from 
him  and  boldly  demanded  the  Major's  attention, 
but  at  this  moment  the  telegraph  operator  came 
in  with  a  dispatch.  And  now  all  interests  were 
centered.  The  Major  tore  open  the  envelope  and 
read  aloud  the  following  from  the  governor: 

"Troops  are  at  competitive  drill  in  Missis 
sippi.  Have  ordered  them  home." 

The  Major  stood  leaning  with  his  elbow  on 
the  top  of  the  clerk's  tall  desk.  He  looked  again 
at  the  dispatch,  reading  it  to  himself,  and  about 
him  was  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet. 

"Well,  it  won't  take  them  more  than  twenty- 
four  hours  to  get  home,"  he  said,  "and  that  will 
be  time  enough.  But  Billy,  we'd  better  not 
swear  out  that  warrant  till  they  come." 

"That's  wise,"  said  the  Judge,  a  cautious  man. 
"His  followers  would  not  stand  to  see  him  tak 
en  in  by  the  civil  authorities;  it's  not  showy 
enough." 

And  Parker,  speaking  up,  declared  the  Judge 
was  right.  "I  ricollect  the  militia  come  down 
here  once  durin'  the  days  of  the  carpet-baggers, 
and " 

"But  let  no  one  speak  of  the  dispatch  having 
been  sent  to  the  governor,"  said  the  Judge. 
"Billy,  when  the  sheriff  comes  back  you'd  bet 
ter  tell  him  to  appoint  forthwith  at  least  a  hun 
dred  deputies." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  265 

"In  fact,"  the  Major  replied,  "every  law-abid 
ing  man  in  the  county  might  be  declared  a  dep 
uty." 

Old  Parker  found  his  neighbor  and  nudged 
him.  "I  says  to  my  wife,  'Nancy/  says  I,  'when 
ever  you  want  the  right  idee,  go  to  John  Crance- 
ford  and  you'll  get  it.'" 

"That's  all  right,  Uncle  Parker,"  the  irritated 
man  replied.  "I  don't  give  a  continental  and 
you  needn't  keep  on  coming  to  me  with  it." 

"You  don't?    Then  what  sort  of  a  man  are 


you 


"You  boys  quit  your  mowling  over  there," 
the  county  clerk  commanded. 

"Major,"  said  the  Judge,  "the  troops  will 
doubtless  come  by  boat  and  land  near  your  place. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea  for 
you  to  come  over  with  them?  The  truth  is  you 
know  our  people  are  always  more  or  less  prej 
udiced  against  militia,  and  it  is  therefore  best 
to  have  a  well-known  citizen  come  along  with 
them." 

"I  don't  know  but  that  you  are  right,"  said 
the  Major.  "Yes,  I  will  come  with  them." 

He  bade  the  men  good  day  and  turned  to  go, 
and  out  into  the  hall  the  Judge  came  following 
him.  "By  the  way,  Major,"  said  he,  "you  are 
of  course  willing  to  take  all  responsibility;  and 
I'd  a  little  rather  you  wouldn't  mention  my  name 
in  connection  with  the  militia's  coming  down 


266       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

here,  for  the  ordering  out  of  troops  is  always 
looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  snap  judgment." 

"I  thought  you  said  that  you  were  not  going 
to  run  for  office  again,"  the  Major  bluntly  re 
plied. 

The  Judge  stammered  and  though  the  hall 
was  but  dimly  lighted,  the  Major  saw  that  his 
face  was  growing  red. 

"I  have  reconsidered  that,"  confessed  the  poli 
tician,  "and  next  season  I  shall  be  a  candidate 
for  re-election." 

"And  I  will  oppose  you,  sir." 

"Oppose  me?    And  why  so?" 

"Because  you've  got  no  nerve.  I  believe,  sir, 
that  in  your  smooth  way  you  once  took  occasion 
to  say  that  Gideon  Batts  was  a  loud-mouth  and 
most  imprudent  man.  But,  sir,  there  is  more 
merit  in  the  loud  bark  of  a  dog  than  in  the  soft 
tread  of  a  cat.  I  will  oppose  you  when  the  time 
comes,  but  I  will  shoulder  the  responsibility  of 
martial  law  in  this  community.  Good  day,  sir." 

"Major— 

"I  said  good  day,  sir." 

The  old  gentleman  strode  hotly  out  to  the 
rack  where  his  horse  was  tied,  and  thereabout 
was  gathered  a  number  of  boys,  discussing  the 
coming  danger  which  in  their  shrewdness  they 
had  keenly  sniffed.  Among  them  he  distributed 
pieces  of  money,  wherewith  to  buy  picture 
books,  he  said,  but  they  replied  that  they  were 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       267 

going  to  buy  powder  and  he  smiled  upon  them 
as  he  mounted  his  horse  to  ride  away. 

In  the  road  not  far  distant  from  the  town  he 
met  Larnage,  the  Frenchman.  The  day  before 
he  would  have  passed  him  merely  with  a  nod,  as 
he  scarcely  knew  him  by  sight  and  had  forgotten 
his  name;  but  the  hardware  dealer  had  recalled 
it  and  upon  it  had  put  an  emphasis;  so,  reining 
up  his  horse,  he  motioned  the  man  to  stop. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  neighbor 
hood?"  the  Major  asked.  At  this  abrupt 
ness  the  Frenchman  was  astonished. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  replied. 

"Yes  you  do.  How  long  have  you  been 
here?" 

"Oh,  I  understand  that,  but  I  do  not  under 
stand  why  you  should  ask." 

"But  can't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  can  be  so  obliging.  I  have  lived  here  two 
years." 

"And  how  long  in  the  United  States?" 

"Ten  years.  And  now  will  you  have  the  good 
ness  to  tell  me  why  you  wish  to  know?  Will 
you  be  so  kind  as  I  have  been?" 

"Well,  to  be  frank,  I  don't  hear  a  very  good 
report  of  you." 

"But  who  is  appointed  to  make  a  report  of 
me?  I  attend  to  my  own  business,  and  is  this 
a  bad  report  to  make  of  a  citizen  of  the  coun 
try?  If  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  pardon 
me  I  will  ride  on." 


268       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Wait  a  moment.  Why  are  you  buying  so 
many  cartridges?" 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Has  not  the  citizen  of  the  country  a  right  to 
spend  his  money?  I  have  heard  that  the  Major 
is  polite.  He  must  not  be  well  to-day.  Shall 
I  ride  on  now?  Ah,  I  thank  you." 

Onward  the  Frenchman  rode,  and  gazing  back 
at  him  the  Major  mused:  "The  frog-eater  gave 
me  the  worst  of  it.  But  I  believe  he's  a  scoun 
drel  all  the  same.  I  didn't  get  at  him  in  the 
right  way.  Sorry  I  said  anything  to  him." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Upon  reaching  home  shortly  after  nightfall  the 
Major  found  visitors  waiting  for  him  in  the  li 
brary — Wash  Sanders,  old  Gid,  Jim  Taylor, 
Low,  and  a  red  bewhiskered  neighbor  named 
Perdue.  A  bright  fire  was  crackling  in  the  great 
fire-place;  and  with  stories  of  early  steamboat 
days  upon  the  Mississippi,  Gid  was  regaling  the 
company  when  the  hero  of  the  yarn  opened  the 
door  and  looked  in.  Getting  to  their  feet 
with  a  scuffle  and  a  clatter  of  shovel  and  tongs 
(which  some  one  knocked  down)  they  cried  him 
a  welcome  to  his  own  house. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Major,  "just  wait  till 
I  eat  a  bite  and  I'll  be  with  you.  Have  you  all 
been  to  supper?" 

"We  have  all  been  stuffed,"  Gid  took  the  lib 
erty  to  answer,  "all  but  Wash  Sanders  and 
* » 

"Don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  chicken  alive," 
Sanders  struck  in.  "Wish  I  could  eat  with  you, 
Major,  but  I  ain't  got  no  relish  for  vidults.  But 
I'm  glad  to  know  that  other  folks  ain't  that  bad 
off.  Jest  go  on  and  take  your  time  like  we 
want  here  waitin'  for  you." 

While  the  Major  was  in  the  dining-room, 


270       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

Gid  came  out  and  told  him  that  the  priest  had 
said  to  him  and  to  others  that  it  might  be  well 
to  call  at  the  Major's  house  immediately  upon 
his  return  from  Brantly. 

"He's  all  right,"  said  the  Major,  getting  up 
and  taking  the  lead  toward  the  library.  And 
when  he  had  sat  down  in  his  chair,  bottomed 
with  sheep-skin,  he  told  his  friends  of  his  fears  of 
a  negro  insurrection,  of  the  dispatch  and  of  the 
answer  from  the  governor;  and  he  related  his 
talk  with  the  Frenchman,  whereupon  Low,  the 
Englishman,  spoke  up: 

"I  know  that  chap.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me 
to  learn  that  he  put  some  rascally  black  up  to 
the  trick  of  punching  that  hole  in  my  bath. 
For  a  time  he  came  about  my  place  quite  a  bit, 
you  know,  but  I  gave  him  to  understand  one  day 
that  I  vastly  preferred  to  choose  my  own  asso 
ciates.  And  you  may  rest  with  the  assurance 
that  he  will  be  against  the  whites.  Ah,  with  a 
Frenchman  it  is  never  a  question  as  to  which 
side  he  shall  take.  By  jove,  he  always  finds  out 
which  side  the  Englishman  is  on  and  then  takes 
the  other.  I  have  brought  with  me  a  bit  of 
Scotch  whisky  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  you 
gentlemen  join  me." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  Major.  "I  have 
some  liquor  that  was  distilled  sixty  years  ago 
by  the  grandfather  of  the  commander  of  the 
Alabama.  We'll  try  that  first." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  271 

"Good!"  cried  the  Briton.  "I  can't  deny  the 
Alabama  claim,  you  know."  And  then  he  add 
ed:  "Most  extraordinary,  I  assure  you." 

"Just  wait  till  you  smack  your  mouth  on  it," 
said  Gid.  "Why,  sir,  there's  the  smile  of  a 
goddess  in  each  drop  and  a  'Paradise  Regained' 
in  a  swallow.  Sit  down,  Wash  Sanders — a  swig 
of  it  would  shoot  you  into  the  air  like  a  rocket." 

"But  really,  Mr.  Gid,  I  think  a  little  of  it  would 
help  my  appetite,"  Sanders  replied,  looking 
anxiously  toward  the  Major. 

"Appetite !"  Gid  cried.  "You  can  eat  the  hind 
leg  of  a  rhinoceros  right  now." 

"Do  you  mean  to  insult  me,  sir?"  Sanders  re 
torted,  weakly  bristling  up;  and  the  Major  turn 
ing  from  the  sideboard,  with  the  odd-shaped  bot 
tle  and  several  glasses  in  his  hands,  looked  at 
Batts  and  said:  "Don't,  Gid." 

"All  right,  but  I  was  joking,"  the  old  rascal 
declared.  "Wash  and  I  always  prank  with  each 
other.  You  can  take  a  joke,  can't  you,  Wash?" 

"With  the  best  of  them,"  Sanders  answered. 
"Yes,  sir,  and  before  the  doctors  proved  to  me 
that  I  couldn't  get  well  I  was  joking  all  the  time." 
He  raised  his  hand  and  with  his  long  finger  nail 
scratched  his  chin.  "But  they  showed  me  that  I 
couldn't  get  well  and  if  that  ain't  enough  to  sad 
den  a  man's  life  I  don't  know  what  is." 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Major,  "I  want 
you  to  help  yourselves,  and  not  be  afraid,  for 


272  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

the  glasses  are  shallow  and  the  bottle  is  deep." 
The  red  bewhiskered  man  Perdue,  who  had 
said  nothing,  took  out  his  quid  of  tobacco  and 
with  a  loud  "spat,"  threw  it  against  the  chimney- 
back.  TU  join  you,"  he  said,  grinning.  "Nev 
er  saw  any  liquor  too  old  for  me," 

They  stood  and  touched  glasses.  Gid  walled 
his  eyes  like  a  steer,  and  with  a  rub  of  his  breast 
and  an  "ah-hah,"  he  nodded  at  Low.  "What 
do  you  think  of  that?"  he  cried.  "Isn't  it  a  mira- 


"Ah,  ft  is  very  smooth,"  Low  answered,  sip 
ping.  "Most  uncommon  I  should  think." 

"Smooth,"  said  Gid.  "Did  you  say  smooth? 
It  is  as  silk  woven  in  the  loom  of  a  dream. 
Wash,  how  does  it  strike  you?" 

"I  think  it  win  help  me,"  Sanders  answered. 

"Help  youT  And  under  bis  breath  Gid 
added:  "Ought  to  kffl  you." 

"What  did  you  say?"  Sanders  asked. 

"Said  it  wouldn't  kill  you." 

"Oh,  I  think  not  Really,  after  a  while  I 
might  be  tempted  to  go  out  and  eat  something. 
How  are  you  gettin*  along,  Perdue?" 

"Shakin'  hands  with  my  grandfather  in  the 
speret,"  Perdue  declared,  and  running  his  fin 
gers  through  his  fiery  whiskers  he  laughed  with 
a  hack  that  cut  like  the  bleat  of  a  sheep. 

"Jim,"  said  die  Major,  turning  to  Taylor,  who 
had  not  left  his  seat,  "you'd  better  try  a  little. 
It  won't  hurt  you." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       273 

"No,  thank  you,  Major,  I'm  afraid  of  it." 

"Let  him  alone,"  Gid  spoke.  "One  drink  of 
this  and  he'd  carry  off  the  gate,  posts  and  all 
and  leave  them  on  the  hilL  Don't  tempt  him." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Perdue,  "I  have  always 
made  it  a  rule  never  to  repeat  anything  that  my 
children  say,  for  I  know  how  such  a  thing  bores 
folks,  but  I  will  tell  you  what  my  son  Ab  said 
the  other  night  His  mother  was  gettin'  him 
ready  for  bed — just  a  little  more,  Major.  There, 
that's  a  plenty.  Mother  was  gettin'  him  ready 
for  bed  and  he  looked  up " 

"I  feel  the  blood  of  youth  mounting  from  the 
feet  of  the  past  to  the  head  of  the  present,"  Gid 
broke  in.  "I  can  jump  a  ten  rail  fence,  staked 
and  ridered." 

"And  I'm  pretty  jumpy  myself,"  the  Major  de 
clared.  "But  what  were  you  going  to  say,  Per 
due?" 

"I  was  goin'  to  say  that  I  always  make  it  a  rule 
never  to  repeat  anything  that  my  children  say,  for 
I  have  often  had  fellers  bore  me  with  the  smart 
sayin's  of  their  children — and  I  know  that  most 
every  man  thinks  that  his  children  are  the 
brightest  in  the  country  and  all  that — but  the 
other  night  as  my  wife  was  gettin'  Ab  ready  for 
bed  he  looked  up " 

"We  never  had  any  children  at  our  house," 
said  Wash  Sanders,  scratching  his  chin  with  his 
polished  finger-nail,  "but  I  jest  as  good  as  raised 

18 


274  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

one  nephew.  You  remember  Dan,  don't  you, 
Major?" 

"Mighty  well.     Went  to  Texas,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  and  got  to  cowboyin'  around  and  was 
killed." 

"I  recall  that  he  was  a  very  bright  young  man," 
said  the  Major.  "But  what  were  you  going  to 
say,  Perdue?" 

"I  was  goin'  to  say  that  I  always  make  it  a 
rule  never  to  tell  anything  that  my  children  say, 
knowin'  how  it  seems  to  pester  folks,  for  I  have 
been  nearly  bored  to  death  by  fellers  breakin' 
in  and  tellin'  what  they  of  course  thought  was  a 
powerful  smart  thing,  said  by  one  of  their  chil 
dren — so  I  am  mighty  keerful  about  such  things, 
makin'  it  a  rule  never  to  repeat  anything  said 
by  my  children,  but  the  other  night  as  my  wife 
was  gettin'  Ab  ready  for  bed " 

"Somebody's  hollering  helloa  at  the  gate," 
said  Jim.  "Hush  -a  minute.  There  it  is 
again." 

The  Major  went  out  and  presently  returned, 
bringing  with  him  a  large  blue  envelope.  "It's 
from  the  county  clerk,"  he  said,  sitting  down 
and  breaking  the  seal.  "Brought  by  a  deputy 
sheriff,  and  he  said  that  he  had  ridden  hard 
all  the  way  and  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  back. 
Let's  see  what  old  Billy  has  to  say."  And  now 
having  put  on  his  spectacles,  he  read  aloud  the 
following: 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       275 

"Marcus  T.  Berry,  sheriff  of  this  the  county  of 
Cranceford,  in  the  State  of  Arkansas,  did  on  this 
day  seek  to  break  up  a  den  of  negro  gamblers 
at  Sassafras,  in  the  before  mentioned  county  of 
Cranceford,  and  State  as  above  set  forth,  and 
while  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  was  then  and 
there  fired  upon  and  so  desperately  wounded  that 
in  his  home  in  the  town  of  Brantly,  seat  of  the 
said  county  of  Cranceford,  State  as  before  men 
tioned,  he  now  lies  at  the  point  of  death.  The 
negroes  claimed  that  they  were  not  gambling, 
but  engaged  in  lawful  merchandise;  but  be  that 
as  it  may,  the  sheriff  and  his  posse  were  there 
and  then  fired  upon,  and  besides  the  wounding 
of  the  sheriff,  two  men  were  killed  outright,  to- 
wit,  one  James  Mattox  and  one  Leon  Smyers, 
and  the  same  were  left  there.  The  sheriff  man 
aged  to  make  his  escape,  albeit  he  was  followed 
and  repeatedly  fired  upon.  And  be  it  known 
that  the  report  now  reaches  here  that  the  atrocity 
did  not  cease  with  the  firing  on  of  the  sheriff's 
posse,  but  that  a  sharp  fight  afterward  took  place 
between  negroes  and  white  men  near  by;  and  we 
are  now  informed  that  a  strong  force  of  negroes, 
at  the  instance  of  one  Mayo,  is  now  gathering 
in  the  southwestern  part  of  the  county,  prepara 
tory  to  a  march  upon  this,  the  seat  of  the  county 
of  Cranceford.  Therefore,  it  behooves  all  good 
citizens  to  meet  in  the  before  mentioned  town  for 
the  defense  of  life  and  property,  as  it  is  here 
that  the  blow  is  to  fall. 

William  N.  Haines, 

Clerk  of  the  County  of  Cranceford,  in  thfc  State 
of  Arkansas. 


276  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

Scarcely  observing  a  pause  the  Major  had  read 
the  letter,  and  no  word  of  surprise  had  been 
spoken  by  his  listeners;  and  now  in  silence  they 
looked  at  one  another,  Gid  with  his  mouth  open, 
Sanders  with  an  expression  of  pain. 

"Well,"  said  the  Major,  "that  settles  it." 

"By  jove,"  the  Englishman  burst  out,  "I 
should  rather  say  unsettles  it.  I  can't  conceive 
of  a  settlement  on  that  basis,  you  know.  Those 
blacks  are  positively  annoying.  First  they 
punch  a  hole  in  my  bath  and  then  they  fire  on 
a  sheriff's  party.  I  should  call  it  a  most  extra 
ordinary  approach  toward  the  settlement  of  a 
difficult  problem.  But  now,  gentlemen,  if  you'll 
join  me  we'll  take  a  bit  of  Scotch  whisky." 

Old  Gid  looked  hard  at  him.  "What?"  said 
he,  "insult  old  Semmes'  liquid  music  with  a  hot 
breath  of  peat  smoke!  Never,  sir.  And  con 
sequently  I'll  take  another  glimpse  at  this  moun 
tain  sunrise." 

The  Englishman  laughed.  "You  have  a  most 
extraordinary  way  of  boasting,  you  know.  You 
may  take  your  sunrise  on  the  mountain,  but 
I  prefer  this  moonlight  in  the  heather.  A  glass 
about  half  full  of  water,  please.  Thank  you, 
very  kind  I  assure  you."  The  Briton  sat 
and  sipped  his  Scotch  while  the  Major  paced 
up  and  down  the  room,  hands  behind  him, 
deep  in  thought.  But  soon  he  took  his  chair 
again,  a  proof  that  what  now  was  to  come  was 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       277 

not  a  speculation  but  the  outline  of  a  plan  of 
action. 

"Where's  Tom?"  he  asked,  nodding  at  Gid,  but 
with  an  eye  upon  Wash  Sanders. 

"Over  at  my  house,"  Wash  Sanders  answered. 

"Well,  when  you  go  home,  take  this  message 
to  him.  Say  that  I  said  go  at  once  to  the  neigh 
bors  for  five  miles  below  your  house,  along  the 
county  road,  and  tell  them  that  trouble  of  a  seri 
ous  nature  has  come — tell  them  to  meet,  men, 
women  and  children,  at  my  house  by  daylight 
in  the  morning.  Have  him  remind  them  that 
this  house,  on  account  of  its  situation  high  above 
the  river,  is  the  easiest  to  defend,  and  that  it 
will  accommodate  more  people  than  any  other 
house  in  the  neighborhood.  Tell  the  men,  of 
course,  to  bring  their  arms  and  all  the  amuni- 
tion  they  have.  Explain  that  a  sufficient  number 
of  men  will  be  left  here  to  protect  the  women  and 
children,  while  the  large  majority  of  us  will  make 
all  possible  haste  to  the  county  seat.  Tell  the 
men  to  come  mounted.  Now  is  it  clear  to  you?" 

"Major,"  Wash  Sanders  spoke  up  with  more 
than  his  usual  show  of  spirit,  "the  doctors  have 
condemned  my  body  but  they  hain't  condemned 
my  "mind.  It  is  clear  to  me,  sir,  and  I  will  go 
now." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Major.  "And  Jim,"  he 
added,  "you  do  the  same  with  the  upper  end  of 
the  road." 


•END  ROOM  DOWN  THE  PORCH. 
GO  TO  BED." 


The  giant  was  smoking. 
He  stood  his  pipe  against  a 
corner  of  the  fire-place,  got 
up  and  without  saying  a 
word,  strode  away.  Wash 
Sanders  was  soon  gone,  af 
ter  halting  at  the  door  to  say 
that  he  might  not  be  able 
to  eat  enough  to  keep  a 
setting  hen  alive,  but  that 
he  reckoned  he  could  pull 
a  trigger  with  any  man  that 
ever  came  over  the  pike. 
And  now  the  Major,  old 
Gid  and  the  Englishman  sat 
looking  into  the  fire. 

"War  time,  Gid,"  said  the 
Major. 

"Yes,     without     banners     and 
without  glory,"  the  old  fellow  re- 


"You  are  right.  In  the  opinion  of  the  ma 
jority  of  Americans,  bravery  on  our  part  will  be 
set  down  as  a  cruelty  and  a  disgrace.  The  news 
paper  press  of  the  north  will  condemn  us.  But 
we  can't  help  that,  for  a  man  must  protect  his 
home.  Mr.  Low,  there  is  nothing  so  unjust  as 
politics." 

"We  have  had  many  examples  of  it  in  England, 
sir." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       279 

"Yes,"  said  the  Major,  "there  have  been  ex 
amples  of  it  everywhere.  In  this  country  poli 
tical  influences  have  narrowed  some  of  the  broad 
est  minds." 

"In  England  political  prejudices  have  killed 
poets,"  the  Englishman  said. 

"And  now,"  Gid  put  in,  "while  you  are  dis 
cussing  the  evil  I  will  try  a  little  more  of  the 
good.  John,  have  another  peep  at  the  blue  dome 
above?" 

"No  I  must  go  and  give  Mrs.  Cranceford  old 
Billy's  letter." 

"Won't  it  alarm  her?"  the  Englishman  asked. 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,"  the  Major  answered, 
and  old  Gid  smiled.  "You  couldn't  scare  her 
with  a  bell-mouth  blunderbuss/'  he  declared. 

The  Major  now  had  reached  the  door,  but 
turning  back  he  said:  "You  gentlemen  bet 
ter  sleep  here  to-night." 

In  a  state  of  apparent  alarm  the  Englishman 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "My  bath,"  he  cried.  "No, 
I  can't  stop.  I  must  have  my  bath." 

"But  you  can  bathe  hefe." 

"Oh,  no,  I  must  have  my  own  tub,  you  know. 
But  I  shall  be  here  early  at  morning.  I  must 
go  now.  Good  night,"  he  added,  reaching  the 
door.  "You  are  very  kind,  I  assure  you."  And 
when  thus  he  had  taken  his  leave,  the  Major, 
pointing  at  a  lamp,  said  to  Gid:  "End  room 
down  the  porch.  Go  to  bed." 


280  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Early  at  morning,  just  as  the  dawn  began  to 
pale  the  sandy  bluffs  along  the  shore,  and  while 
the  cypress  bottoms  still  lay  under  the  blackness 
of  night,  there  came  the  trampling  of  horses,  the 
low  tones  of  men,  the  sharp,  nervous  voices  of 
women,  and  the  cries  of  children  untimely  gath 
ered  from  their  trundle-beds.  The  Major  and 
his  wife  were  ready  to  receive  this  overflow  of 
company.  A  spliced  table  was  stretched  nearly 
the  full  length  of  the  long  hall,  and  a  great  ket 
tle  of  coffee  was  blubbering  on  the  fire.  There 
were  but  three  negroes  on  the  place,  one  man 
and  two  women — the  others  had  answered  a  call 
at  midnight  and  had  gone  away.  But  the  re 
maining  ones  were  faithful;  at  a  drowsy  hour 
they  left  their  beds  and  with  no  word  of  com 
plaint  took  it  upon  themselves  to  execute  a  new 
and  hurried  task.  "Bill,"  said  the  Major,  "I 
want  you  and  your  wife  and  Polly  to  understand 
that  I  never  forget  such  faithfulness  as  you  are 
now  showing,  and  when  I  come  back — but  now 
is  the  best  time.  Here  are  ten  dollars  apiece  for 
you  and  you  must  remember  that  as  long  as  I 
live  you  shall  never  want  for  anything." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       281 

Fifty  men  arrived  before  the  east  was  flushed 
with  the  sun.  It  was  decided  that  ten  of  these, 
including  Wash  Sanders,  should  be  left  to  protect 
the  women  and  children.  The  least  active  were 
chosen.  All  but  the  younger  ones  had  followed 
Lee  through  the  dark  days  of  his  last  campaign. 
The  Major  took  command  and  martial  law  pre 
vailed.  He  buckled  on  no  sword  but  he  looked 
like  a  soldier;  and  short,  sharp  sentences  that  he 
had  forgotten  at  the  close  of  the  war  now  came 
back  to  him. 

"Make  ready,  men.  Time  passes.  Mount." 
There  were  pale  faces  in  the  hall  and  at  the 
gate  where  the  men  sat  their  horses,  ready  to 
ride,  but  there  was  bravery  and  no  tears.  The 
command  was  drawn  up;  the  Major,  not  yet 
mounted,  stood  talking  to  Wash  Sanders,  when 
suddenly  down  the  road  a  chant  arose.  All  eyes 
were  turned  that  way,  and  strange  to  them  was 
the  sight  they  beheld — the  Catholic  priest,  with 
slow  and  solemn  pace,  treading  the  middle  of  the 
road,  holding  high  aloft  a  black  crucifix;  and 
behind  him  followed  the  negro  members  of  his 
church,  men,  women  and  children.  He  was 
leading  his  people  to  the  hills — out  of  danger. 
As  the  head  of  this  weird  procession  came  op 
posite  the  gate,  where  now  the  Major  stood  with 
folded  arms,  the  priest  gravely  smiled  and  higher 
held  his  crucifix.  And  then,  silently,  and  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  came  out  the 


three  negroes 
who  had  re 
mained  at  home;  and  taking 
up  the  chant  they  joined  their  broth 
ers  and  sisters.  They  marched  sol 
emnly  onward,  turned  into  a  road  that  led  to  the 
hills,  the  wind  hushing  their  chant,  but  the  black 
cross  still  seen  high  above  their  dusky,  upturned 
faces.  For  full  five  minutes  the  Major  stood  in 
silence,  gazing,  and  then  hastily  mounting,  he 
shouted:  "Forward!"  and  his  troop  swept  down 
the  road.  He  chose  the  nearest  course  and  it 
lay  by  the  old  house  wherein  Louise  had  lived; 
and  again  he  heard  the  wind  moaning  in  the 
ragged  plum  thicket. 

282 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       283 

Along  the  road  the  scattered  houses  were  de 
serted,  and  in  many  a  cabin  the  fire-place  was 
cold,  and  many  a  door  stood  open.  Not  a  negro 
was  seen — yes,  one,  an  old  man  drawn  with 
rheumatism,  sitting  on  a  bench,  waiting  for  the 
sun  to  warm  his  joints. 

When  the  Major  and  his  troop  rode  into  the 
town  they  found  it  quiet — under  the  weight  of  a 
heavy  dread.  They  were  looked  upon  from  win 
dows,  where  men  were  posted,  waiting;  and 
obeying  a  shouted  instruction,  the  Major  led 
his  men  to  a  long,  low  shed  not  far  from  the 
scene  of  expected  blood-flow,  to  stable  their 
horses.  Following  them  came  old  Billy,  the  coun 
ty  clerk;  and  when  the  horses  had  been  put 
away,  he  came  up  and  thus  addressed  the  Major: 

"You  are  to  take  command." 

"All  right.    What  has  been  done?" 

"Not  much  of  anything.  Nothing  could  be 
done  except  to  wait." 

"How  many  men  have  we?" 

"It  is  surprising  how  few,"  old  Billy  answered. 
"We  didn't  realize  how  weak  the  white  popula 
tion  was  until  danger  came.  We  have  about 
three  hundred,  and  more  than  a  thousand  ne 
groes  are  marching  on  the  town.  We  held  a  sort 
of  council  this  morning  and  agreed  that  we'd 
better  post  as  many  as  we  can  in  the  court-house. 
It  commands  all  the  streets  and  besides  we  must 
save  the  records." 


284       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

They  were  now  marching  toward  the  court 
house.  "Where  are  the  women  and  children?" 
the  Major  inquired. 

"In  the  brick  ware-house  with  a  force  of  men 
near." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you've  done  all  you  can.  It 
would  be  nonsense  to  engage  them  in  the  open, 
but  with  our  men  posted  about  the  square  not 
more  than  two-thirds  of  them  can  get  action  at 
once.  Those  poor  devils  are  as  well  armed  as 
we  and  are  wrought  upon  by  fanaticism.  It  is 
going  to  be  desperate  for  a  time.  At  first  they'll 
be  furious.  Has  any  one  heard  of  Mayo?" 

"He's  at  their  head  and  the  Frenchman  is 
with  him." 
•  "How  is  the  sheriff?" 

"Dead." 

They  filed  into  the  court-house,  where  a 
number  of  men  were  already  gathered,  post 
ed  above  and  below.  "Bring  an  axe  and 
cut  loop-holes,"  the  Major  commanded.  "When 
the  fight  begins  you  can't  very  well  fire  from  the 
windows.  How  are  you,  Uncle  Parker?" 

"Able  to  be  about,  Major.  You  wan't  old 
enough  for  the  Mexican  War,  was  you?  No,  of 
course  not.  But  I  was  there  and  this  here  fightin' 
agin  such  odds  puts  me  in  mind  of  it." 

"Good  morning,  Major."  It  was  the  voice  of 
the  County  Judge. 

"Good  morning,  sir.     I  see  you  have  a  gun. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       285 

Don't  you  think  it  impolitic?  But  pardon  me. 
This  is  no  time  for  ill-humored  banter." 

The  Judge  bowed.  "Now  I  recall  John  Crance- 
ford,  the  soldier,"  said  he.  "This  is  a  great  pity 
that  has  come  upon  us,  Major,"  he  added. 

"Worse  than  that,"  the  Major  replied.  "It  is 
a  curse.  The  first  man  who  landed  a  slave  in 
America  ought  to  have  been  hanged." 

"And  what  about  the  men  who  freed  them?" 

"They  were  American  soldiers,  sir,  as  brave 
a  body  of  men  as  ever  trod  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Captain  Batts,  what  are  you  trying  to  do  there?" 

"Thought  I'd  take  a  nap,"  old  Gid  answered. 
"You  can  wake  me  up  when  the  fight  begins — 
don't  want  to  miss  it." 

"If  you  go  to  sleep  I  will  court-martial  you, 
sir.  Superintend  the  cutting  of  the  loop-holes." 

"All  right,  don't  believe  I'm  very  sleepy  any 
way;"  and  as  he  shuffled  away  the  Englishman 
turned  to  the  Major  and  asked: 

"And  is  he  game,  sir?" 

"As  a  lion,"  the  Major  answered. 

"But  he  blows,  you  know,"  said  the  English 
man. 

"And  so  does  a  lion  roar,  sir,"  the  Major  re 
joined. 

The  Major  inspected  the  other  posts,  to  the 
right  and  left  of  the  square,  and  then  took  ac 
tive  command  of  the  lower  floor  of  the  court 
house;  and  when  the  holes  had  been  cut  Gid  was 


THE  MAJOR  DISTRIBUTES  HIS  FORCES. 

told  to  command  the  floor  above.  Tom  Crance- 
ford  was  ordered  to  serve  on  the  floor  above. 
At  this  he  began  to  grumble,  pouting  that 
he  couldn't  be  in  the  rush  if  one  should  come ;  but 
the  Major  stormed  at  him.  "It  is  more  danger 
ous  up  there  if  that's  what  you  want,  and  I'll  be 
with  you  now  and  then  to  see  that  you  are  kept 
busy.  March  this  instant  or  I'll  drive  you  to 
home  duty  under  Wash  Sanders." 

236 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.  287 

From  the  windows  and  the  loop-holes  guns 
could  be  seen  bristling  everywhere,  and  the  min 
utes  that  passed  were  slow  and  weary  with  wait 
ing.  Directly  across  from  the  court-house  was  a 
broad  and  low  brick  store  house,  with  but  a  sin 
gle  window  above,  facing  the  square;  and  the 
Major  looking  at  it  for  a  time,  turned  to  the 
old  clerk  and  said :  "That  building  is  the  strong 
est  one  in  town,  but  no  men  appear  to  be  posted 
in  it.  Why  so?" 

"The  rear  wall  is  torn  out  and  the  men  would 
be  unprotected  from  behind,"  the  clerk  an 
swered.  "The  wall  was  pulled  down  about  a 
month  ago.  Evans  was  going  to  have  the  house 
built  deeper  into  the  lot  so  he  could  use  it  as  a 
cotton  shed,  but  hasn't." 

"Bad  that  it  was  left  that  way.  How  long 
since  the  last  scout  came  in?" 

"About  an  hour  and  a  half." 

"And  where  was  the  enemy  then?" 

"In  the  neighborhood  of  Gum  Springs." 

"That's  bad.  The  militia  won't  have  time  to 
get  here." 

The  Major  went  above  where  he  found  Gid's 
men  posted  at  the  windows  and  the  loop-holes. 
"How  is  everything?"  'he  asked. 

"Lovely,  John." 

"Don't  call  me  John." 

"All  is  well,  Major." 

"Good."    And  after  a  time  he  added:     "The 


288       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

south  road  is  so  crooked  that  we  don't  command 
it  very  far,  therefore  look  sharp.  Back  to  your 
post!"  he  stormed  as  F^erdue  looked  up  from  his 
loop-hole.  "This  is  no  time  for  idleness." 

"I  wonder  what  time  we  eat,"  said  Gid. 

"You  may  never  eat  another  bite,"  the  Major 
answered. 

"Then  I  don't  reckon  there's  any  use  to  worry 
about  it,  John,  or  Major,  I  mean." 

The  Major  returned  to  the  floor  below.  "This 
is  getting  to  be  quite  a  lark,"  said  the  English 
man.  "It's  beastly  cruel  to  fight,  but  after  all  it 
is  rather  jolly,  you  know." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,  sir;  I  can't,"  the  Ma 
jor  replied.  "I  regard  it  as  one  of  the  worst 
calamities  that  ever  befell  this  country." 

"Do  you  think  there  will  be  much  pillage  by 
the  blacks — much  burning  of  houses?" 

"Possibly,  but  to  sustain  their  cause  their  com 
mander  will  hold  them  in  some  sort  of  check.  He 
is  looking  out  for  the  opinion  of  labor  unions,  the 
scoundrel.  He  is  too  sharp  to  give  his  war  a 
political  cast." 

"Ah,  but  to  butcher  is  a  beastly  way  to  look 
after  good  opinion.  What's  that?"  the  English 
man  cried. 

"From  afar,  through  the  stillness  that  lay  along 
the  south  road,  came  the  popping  of  rifles;  and 
then  all  was  still.  Then  came  the  sounds  of  hoofs, 
and  then  a  riderless  horse  dashed  across  the 
square. 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       289 

"Steady,  men,  they  are  upon  us!"  the  Major 
shouted,  and  then  all  again  was  still.  From  the 
windows  nothing  could  be  seen  down  the  road, 
and  yet  the  advance  guard  must  be  near,  for  a 
gun  was  fired  much  closer  that  before.  Now 
upon  the  square  a  rider  dashed,  and  waving  his 
hat  he  cried:  "They  are  coming  through  the 
fields!"  He  dismounted,  struck  his  horse  with 
his  hat  to  drive  him  out  of  danger  and  ran  into 
the  court-house.  The  Major  met  him.  "They 
will  be  here  in  no  time,"  the  man  said.  "But 
how  they  got  so  close  without  my  seeing  them  is 
a  mystery  to  me.  But  of  course  I  expected  to  see 
them  in  the  road  and  didn't  look  for  them  in  the 
fields.  And  that  ain't  all.  They've  got  a  cannon." 

"What!"  the  Major  exclaimed,  and  the  men  at 
the  loop-holes  looked  back  at  him. 

"Yes,"  the  scout  went  on,  "and  I  know  all 
about  it.  Just  before  the  war  ended  an  enormous 
gun  was  spiked,  dismantled  and  thrown  into  a 
well  way  down  on  the  Dinkier  place.  It  was  got 
•out  a  good  while  afterward  and  the  spike  drilled 
out,  and  since  then  it  has  been  used  for  a  Christ 
mas  gun.  Well,  they've  got  that  thing  on  an 
ox  wagon,  but  they've  got  no  way  to  fire  it 
for—" 

The  guns  to  the  right  and  the  left  of  the  square 
blurted  out,  then  came  a  roar  and  a  yell,  and  in 
an  instant  the  opposite  side  of  the  square  was 
black  with  negroes  pouring  out  from  behind  the 

19 


290  AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

low  brick  building.  With  a  howl  and  a  rush  they 
came,  but  from  three  sides  volley  after  volley 
was  poured  into  them,  the  white  men  using  their 
shot  guns.  The  effect  was  terrible,  and  soon  the 
square  was  cleared  of  all  but  the  dead  and  the 
wounded.  A  cessation  fell,  and  Mayo's  voice 
could  be  heard,  shouting  at  his  men.  He  saw 
that  to  attempt  to  take  the  house  by  storm  was 
certain  death,  so  to  comparative  safety  behind 
the  house  and  into  a  deep-cut  road  a  little  far 
ther  back  he  withdrew  his  men.  He  had  not  ex 
pected  so  early  to  find  such  opposition,  and  his 
aim  was  to  crush  with  the  senseless  weight  of 
force,  but  the  shot-guns  were  too  deadly.  Now 
he  was  cool  and  cautious.  The  fire  from  the 
whites  was  straggling.  Suddenly  out  from  be 
hind  the  brick  building  rushed  three  black  giants, 
torches  in  hand,  making  desperately  for  the 
court-house.  It  was  indeed  a  forlorn  hope,  for 
one  by  one  they  fell,  the  last,  so  death-defying 
was  he,  that  he  fell  upon  the  steps  and  his  torch 
flew  from  his  hand  into  the  hall-way  and  crackled 
on  the  floor.  A  man  reached  out  to  grasp  it, 
but  a  shattered  arm  was  drawn  back.  "Not 
you,  Major!"  cried  old  Parker.  Outward  he 
leaned,  grabbing  at  the  torch,  but  Mayo's  guns 
swept  the  hall.  And  when  they  drew  the  old 
man  back,  he  brought  the  snapping  pine,  but  left 
his  life.  They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor,  stood 
for  a  moment  sadly  to  view  him;  and  through 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


291 


a  hole  a  bullet  zipped  and  beside  him  fell    a 
neighbor. 

"Back  to  your  places!"  the  Major  commanded. 
Now  the  guns  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  square 
were  silent.  "They  are  lying  low  and  our  men 
can't  reach  them,"  said  the  Major.  "What  are 
they  up  to  now?  Preparing  for  another  charge?" 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  the  man  who  had  seen 
them  in  the  fields.  "They  have  hoisted  that  can 
non  up  into  the  brick  building  and  are  going  to 
poke  it  through  the  window.  See  there!  See 
that  big  log  up-ended?  That's  to  brace 
it.  From  where  I  lay  I  saw  them  just 
now  breaking  up  an  old  stove  out  in  the 
lot  and  they  are  going  to  load  with  the 
fragments.  I  killed  two  of  them,  but  they 
got  the  stove  away.  Listen,  don't  you 
hear  them  pounding  it  up?" 

"And  this  house  will  afford  no  more 
protection  than  so  much  paper,"  said 
the  Major,  speaking 
low.  "We  have  bad 
ly  planned  our  de 
fense.  We  are  ill  pro 
tected  from  bullets, 
and  a  cannon  will 
blow  us  into  the  air." 
And  then,  moving 
from  one  to  another, 


HB  FELL  UPON  THE  STEPS. 


292       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

he  looked  through  the  loop-holes.  "Train  every 
gun  on  that  window,"  he  commanded,  "and  shoot 
if  a  finger  is  seen."  Up  the  stairs  he  bounded. 
Old  Gid  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
softly  whistling.  "Pretty  peppery,  Major,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  three  bodies  stretched  upon  the 
floor. 

"Yes,"  the  Major  replied,  "and  it  will  be  worse. 
We  are  doomed." 

"How  so?  Keep  on  rushing  till  they  wear  us 
out?  I  reckon  not.  It  would  take  five  thou 
sand  men.  God,  but  look  at  them  lying  out 
there.  They  were  desperate,  but  they  are  toned 
down." 

"They've  got  a  cannon  loaded  with  the  frag 
ments  of  a  stove  and  will  fire  it  from  that  win 
dow,"  said  the  Major. 

Gid  whistled  and  resumed  his  walk.  The 
firing  about  the  square  was  slow  and  steady. 
From  across  the  way  there  came  no  gun  shot. 
"Got  a  cannon,  eh?"  old  Gid  mused.  "I  won 
dered  why  they  were  so  still,"  and  then  to  the 
Major  he  said:  "They'll  shell  us  out  and  mow 
us  down  at  their  leisure.  Who  built  this  infer 
nal  court-house?" 

"I  don't  remember,"  the  Major  answered,  "but 
he  ought  to  be  in  here  now.  Train  your  guns 
on  that  window." 

The  Major  went  below.  Just  as  he  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  stairway  he  leaped  forward  with 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


293 


a  cry.  He  saw  Jim  Taylor  jump  from  a  window 
out  upon  the  square.  The  Major  ran  to  a  loop 
hole,  pushed  a  man  aside  and  looked  out.  And 
now  there  was  a  belching  of  guns  on  the  other 
side.  Jim  Taylor  caught  up  a  child  in  his  arms, 
and  with  bullets  pecking  up  the  dirt  about  him 
and  zipping  against  the  wall,  he  dodged  behind 
a  corner  of  the  house.  Then  he  ran  acrpss  the 
protected  side  of  the  square.  Near  by,  in  the 
door  of  a  warehouse,  a  woman  stood,  shrieking. 
When  she  saw  the  giant  with  her  little  boy  in 
his  arms  she  ran  out  to  meet  him,  breaking  loose 
from  the  hands  that  strove  to  hold  her, 
and  snatching  the  little  fellow,  she 
cried:  "God  bless  you  for  this.  I 
have  so  many  little  ones  to  see  to 
that  he  got  out  and  went  to 
look  for  his  grandpa 
Parker.  God  bless  you, 
sir." 

The  giant  had  seen  old 
Parker  lying  dead  on  the 
floor,  but  he  said  noth 
ing;  he  turned  about,  and 
entering  the  court-house 
from  the   protected    side 
was  soon  at  his  post.  The 
Major  stormed  at  him. 
"You've  lost  all 
your  sense," 


JIM  TAYLOR  AND  THE  CHILD. 


he  cried.  "You  are  a 
bull-calf,  sir.  Now  sec 
that  you  don't  leave 
your  post  again.  Did 
they  hit  you?"  he 
anxiously  asked. 

"Don't  believe  they 
did,"  the  giant  grimly 
answered. 

"Well,  they  will  in  a  minute.     Look 
there!" 

The  mouth  of  the  cannon  showed  above 
the  window,   shoved  through   and  now 
OLD  GUN  IN  THE  STATE  rested  on  the  ledge;  and  behind  it  arose 

CAPITOL  GROUNDS.  '  ,,        ,  ,     . 

an  enormous  log.  From  the  loop-holes 
in  the  court-house  the  gun  was  raked  with 
buckshot,  but  all  the  work  was  done  from  below 
and  no  one  stood  exposed.  Once  a  hand,  like 
a  black  bat,  was  seen  upon  the  gun,  but 
instantly  it  flew  away,  leaving  a  blotch  of 
blood.  And  now  the  old  bell,  so  quiet  all  the 
morning,  began  to  strike — one,  two,  ten,  thirty — 
slowly,  with  dread  and  solemn  pauses. 

"Look!"  the  Major  cried.  A  red-hot  poker 
glowed  above  the  cannon.  Buck-shot  hailed 
from  a  hundred  guns,  and  the  poker  fell,  but 
soon  it  came  again  and  this  time  flat  upon  the 
gun.  The  hand  that  held  it  was  nervous  and 
fumbling.  Suddenly  the  breech  of  the  gun 
slipped  lower  down  the  upright  log.  Up  went 
the  muzzle,  and  then  came  a  deafening  boom. 

294 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       295 

There  was  a  crash  over-head.  The  cupola  of  the 
court-house  was  shattered,  and  down  came  the 
bell  upon  the  roof,  and  off  it  rolled  and  fell  upon 
the  ground  with  a  clang.  Out  surged  Mayo's 
men,  but  a  fearful  volley  met  them,  and  amid 
loud  cries  and  with  stumbling  over  the  dead  and 
the  dying,  torn  and  bleeding,  they  were  driven 
back.  But  they  set  up  a  yell  when  they  saw  the 
damage  their  gun  had  wrought.  They  could 
foresee  the  havoc  of  a  better  managed  fire.  Now 
the  yells  were  hushed.  The  Major's  men  could 
hear  a  black  Vulcan  hammering  his  iron;  then 
a  lesser  noise — they  were  driving  the  scraps  into 
the  gun. 

"It  will  be  worse  this  time,"  said  the  Major. 
"They  have  cut  a  deeper  niche  in  the  log  to  hold 
the  breech  and  there'll  be  no  chance  of  its  slip 
ping.  These  walls  will  be  shattered  like  an  egg 
shell.  Steady,  they  are  at  it." 

Again  the  gun  lay  across  the  window  ledge. 
The  red-hot  poker  bobbed  up,  glowing  in  the 
dim  light,  but  there  was  a  crash  and  a  rain  of 
shot  and  it  flew  back  out  of  sight;  and  it  must 
have  been  hurled  through  the  rear  opening  of 
the  wall,  for  they  were  a  long  time  in  getting  it. 
But  it  came  again,  this  time  sparkling  with  white 
heat.  The  guns  about  the  square  kept  up  an  in 
cessant  fire,  but  over  the  powder  the  poker 
bobbed,  and  then — the  whole  town  shook  with 
the  terrific  jar,  and  windows  showered  their  glass 


*C  vm^i 


^  >lf^f7 

'     "^4& 


DOWN  CAME  THE  BKMj  UPON  THE  ROOF. 

upon  the  street,  and  through  the  smoke  a  thrill 
ing  sight  was  seen — the  roof  of  the  brick  build 
ing  was  blown  into  splinters  and  in  the  air  flew 
boots,  hats  and  the  fragments  of  men — the  gun 
had  exploded. 

"Out  and  charge !"  the  Major  shouted.  "For 
ward,  Captain  Batts!"  he  cried  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  and  the  men  came  leaping  down.  The  cry 
was  taken  up,  and  from  every  building  about 
the  square  the  men  were  pouring.  Mayo  had 
no  time  to  rally  his  force;  indeed,  it  was  beyond 
his  power,  for  his  men  were  panic-smitten. 
Into  the  fields  and  toward  the  woods  they  ran 
for  their  lives.  It  was  now  a  chase.  Bang,  to 
right  and  the  left,  and  in  the  fields  the  fleeing 

296 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       297 

blacks  were  falling,  one  by  one.  Once  or  twice 
they  strove  to  make  a  stand,  but  hell  snorted 
in  their  faces — and  death  barked  at  their 
heels.  In  their  terror  they  were  swift,  but  from 
afar  the  rifles  sucked  their  blood.  The  woods 
were  gained  and  now  they  were  better  protected 
in  their  flight,  dodging  from  tree  to  tree;  some 
of  them  faced  about  and  white  men  fell,  and  thus 
was  caution  forced  upon  the  pursuers.  So  much 
time  was  gained  that  Mayo  rallied  the  most  of 
his  men,  but  not  to  stand  and  fight.  He  had  an 
other  plan.  In  a  small  open  space,  once  a  cot 
ton  patch,  stood  a  large  church,  built  of  logs, 
and  thither  he  hastened  his  men,  and  therein 
they  found  a  fortress.  The  Major  called  in  his 
scattered  forces.  They  gathered  in  the  woods 
about  the  church. 

"Are  you  going  to  charge  them?"  old  Gideon 
asked. 

"No,  sir,  that  would  be  certain  death  to  many 
of  us.  Hemmed  in  as  they  now  are  they'll  be 
deadly  desperate.  We'll  have  to  manage  it  some 
other  way."  A  shower  of  buck-shot  flew  from 
the  church. 

"I  gad,  Major,  they've  got  buck-shot,"  said 
Gid.  "And  they  could  mow  us  down  before  we 
could  cross  that  place.  They  still  outnumber  us 
two  to  one — packed  in  there  like  sardines.  Don't 
you  think  we'd  better  scatter  about  and  peck  at 
'em  when  they  show  an  eye?  I'd  like  to  know 


AN 


PLANTER. 


who  built  that  church.  OiiittUMl  him,  he  cut 
out  too  many  windows  to  suit  me." 

"Dodge  down,  menF  cried  the  Major.  "Mr. 
Low,  get  back  there,  sir!" 

"Be  so  kind  as  to  oblige  me  with  the  time," 
said  Low.  "The  rascals  have  smashed  my 
watch.  Punch  a  hole  in  my  bath  and  then  ruin 
my  watch,  yon  know.  Most  extraordinary  im 
pudence,  1  assure  yon." 

"It  is  half-past  three,"  said  the  Major.  "And 
what  a  day  it  has  been  and  it  is  not  done  yet" 

Jim  Taylor  came  forward.  "Look  out."  said 
the  Major.  "TheyTl  get  you  the  first  thing  you 
know.  Why  don't  yon  pick  up  a  few  grains  of 
sense  as  yon  go  along?" 

"Why  don't  some  one  scatter  a  few  grains?" 

"Hush,  sir.    I  wont  no  back  talk  from  yon." 

"But  Eve  got  an  idea,"*  said  the  giant,  with  a 
L  r-jxi  . 


"inrhy,  right  over  yon 
der  is  the  Nelson  planta 
tion  store-house,"  said 
Jim,  "and  at  the  front  end 
is  the  biggest  door  I  ever 
saw,  double  oak  and  so 
thickly  studded  with 
wrongfat-iron  nails  tfraf 
their  broad  heads  touch. 
And  my  idea  is  this:  Take 


""Out  with  it* 


BLACKS  WWM*.  PAUJSG  OXB  BY  OBE 


AX  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


299 


that  door,  cut  a  round  hole  in  the  center  with  a 
cold-chisel,  cut  down  a  good-sized  cypress  tree, 
round  off  one  end,  fit  it  in  the  hole,  with  about 
five  feet  sticking  through;  let  a  lot  of  us  strong 
fellows  gather  up  the  tree,  and,  protected  by  the 
door,  use  it  for  a  battering  ram  and  punch  that 
house  down.  Then  we  can  work  them  freely, 
as  the  fellow  says." 

"Jim,"  the  Major  cried,  "you  are  learning 
something.  This  day  has  developed  you.  I 
believe  that  can  be  done.  At  least  it  is  worth 
trying.  But,  men,  if  it  should  be  effective,  let 
there  be  as  little  unnecessary  slaughter  as  possi 
ble.  We  are  compelled  to  kill — well,  we  can't 
help  it  However,  take  Mayo  alive  if  you  possi 
bly  can.  I  want  to  see  him  hanged  on  the  pub 
lic  square.  Now  get  the  door.  Here,  Tom,  you 
and  Low  cut  down  a  cypress  tree. 
Here,  Lacy,  you  help. 
Low  doesn't  know  how  to 
handle  an  ax.  We'd  bet- 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  IN   THE  WOODS. 


300        AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

ter  begin  operations  over  there  on  the  left.  There 
are  fewer  windows  on  that  side.  We  can  batter 
down  the  door.  No,  there  is  a  high  window 
above  the  door  and  they  could  shoot  down  upon 
us.  That  won't  do.  We'll  take  the  left  side. 
See,  there  are  but  two  windows,  both  close  to 
gether  near  the  end.  Look  out,  boys.  Keep 
behind  the  trees.  I  wonder  how  solid  those  logs 
are.  When  was  that  church  built,  Captain 
Batter 

"Don't  remember  the  exact  time,  but  not  so 
very  long  ago.  I  recollect  that  there  was  talk 
of  a  probable  extension,  the  time  that  new  re 
vivalist  was  having  the  house  built,  and  that 
must  account  for  the  few  windows  toward  this 
end  on  the  left.  They've  got  a  first-rate  place 
to  shoot  from,  but  what  astonishes  me  is  that 
Mayo  should  want  to  make  a  stand  when  he 
must  know  that  we'll  get  him  sooner  or  later." 

"That's  easily  explained,"  said  the  scout  who 
had  dashed  upon  the  public  square.  "They  are 
looking  for  a  large  body  of  reinforcements  from 
the  south,  and  Mayo  knows  what  to  expect  if 
he  should  run,  panic-stricken,  into  them.  His 
only  hope  was  in  making  a  stand." 

"Where  is  Perdue?"  the  Major  asked,  looking 
about,  from  one  tree  to  another. 

"He  fell  back  yonder  in  the  field,"  old  Gid 
answered.  "I  ran  to  him,  but  he  must  have  been 
dead  by  the  time  he  hit  the  ground." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.        301 

The  Major  said  nothing.  He  stood  leaning 
against  a  tree  looking  toward  Jim  and  four  other 
men  coming  with  the  heavy  door. 

"And  old  Billy,"  said  Gid,  "is -" 

The  Major  turned  about.    "Well,"  he  broke  in. 

"You  know,"  said  Gid,  "we  used  to  say  that 
he  always  had  a  blot  of  ink  on  his  head.  But 
now  he's  lying  back  yonder  with  a  spot  of  blood 
where  the  ink  was." 

The  Major  called  to  Jim :  "Put  it  down  there." 
And  then  speaking  to  Gid  'he  added:  "That 
scoundrel  must  pay  for  this.  Don't  shoot  him — 
don't  even  break  his  legs — I  want  to  see  them 
dangle  in  front  of  the  court-house  door." 

With  a  chisel  and  a  hammer  the  giant  worked, 
on  his  knees,  and  it  was  almost  like  cutting 
through  solid  iron.  The  echo  of  his  heavy  blows 
rumbled  afar  off  throughout  the  timber-land. 

The  detail  of  men  came  with  the  log,  the  body 
of  a  cypress  tree,  one  end  smoothly  rounded. 
Jim  took  his  measurements  and  proceeded  with 
his  work.  Once  he  had  to  drag  the  door  to  a 
better-sheltered  spot.  Bullets  from  the  church 
were  pecking  up  the  dirt  about  him.  Three 
times  the  piece  of  timber  was  tried,  to  find  that 
the  hole  in  the  door  was  not  quite  large  enough, 
but  at  last  it  went  through  and  the  giant  smiled 
at  the  neatness  of  the  work.  And  now  the  ram 
was  ready.  The  firing  from  the  church  had  fall 
en  and  all  was  silent. 


302  AN    ARKANSAS    PLANTER. 

"It  will  take  about  eight  men,  four  on  a  side — 
all  strong  young  fellows,"  said  Taylor.  "You 
old  men  stand  back.  Major,  order  Captain 
Batts  to  let  go  the  log." 

"Captain  Batts,  turn  loose,"  the  Major  com 
manded.  "You  are  too  old  for  such  work." 

With  a  sigh  old  Gid  stepped  back,  and  sadly 
he  looked  upon  the  young  men  as  they  took 
their  places.  "Yes,  I'm  getting  old,  John,  but 
you  needn't  keep  telling  me  of  it." 

"Sir,  didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  call  me  John?" 

"Yes,  but  I  thought  you'd  forgotten  it." 

Taylor  and  the  Englishman  were  side  by  side, 
the  log  between  them.  Augur  holes  had  been 
bored  in  the  shaft  and  strong  oak  pins  had  been 
driven  in  to  serve  for  handles. 

"Remember  to  keep  a  tight  grip  on  your 
handle,"  said  Jim. 

"I  warrant  that,"  the  Briton  replied.  "Are 
we  all  ready?  Really  quite  a  lark,  you  know." 

A  stable  had  stood  at  the  left  boundary  of  the 
field,  and  one  wall,  cut  down,  was  now  a  part  of 
the  fence.  Circling  about  to  avoid  the  under 
growth  and  at  the  same  time  to  keep  out  of 
Mayo's  range,  the  men  with  the  ram  came  up  be 
hind  the  old  wall;  and  here  they  were  halted  to 
wait  until  the  Major  properly  placed  his  marks 
men.  He  made  the  circuit  of  the  field,  and  com 
ing  back,  announced  that  all  was  ready.  A 
score  of  shot-guns  were  trained  upon  the  two 


windows  that  looked  out  upon  the  space  between 
the  stable  wall  and  the  church.     Over  the  wall 
the  door  was  lifted,  and  the 
shot-guns  roared,  for  the  ne- 
groes  had  opened  fire  from  the  ^^,^5^ 
windows,   but  necessary  cau-    '        -5Bp7?*555y| 
tion  marred  the  effect  of  their  aim.    Without 
a  mishap  the  ram  was  lowered  into  the  field. 
And  now  forward  it  went,  slowly  at  first,  but 
faster  and  faster,  the  men  on  a  run,  the  lower 

•  CABIN. 

edge  of  the  door  sweeping  the  old  cotton  stalks. 
Faster,  with  a  yell,  and  the  men  about  the  field 
stood  ready  to  charge.  Shot-guns  blazed  from 
the  windows,  and  shot  like  sharp  sleet  rattled  off 
the  heavy  nail-heads  in  the  door.  Faster,  and 
with  a  stunning  bim  the  ram  was  driven 
against  the  house.  But  the  logs  lay  firm.  Back 
again,  thirty  feet,  another  run  and  a  ram,  but 
the  logs  were  firm.  From  the  windows,  almost 
directly  in  front,  the  buck-shot  poured,  and 
glancing  about,  plucked  up  the  dirt  like  rain 
drops  in  a  dusty  road.  Once  more,  back  still 
further,  and  again  they  drove  with  head-long 
force.  The  house  shook,  the  roof  trembled,  but 
the  logs  were  sound  and  stubbornly  lay  in  place. 
Back  again  but  this  time  not  to  stop.  "To  the 
fence,"  Jim  ordered.  A  shout  came  from  the 
church.  The  Major  stamped  the  ground. 
"Keep  your  places  and  wait  for  me,"  said  Jim  to 
his  men.  He  leaped  the  stable  wall.  "Here 

303 


3«4  AN  -ARKANSAS    PLANTER. 

young  fellow,"  he  called,  "run  over  to  that  store 
house  and  bring  a  can  of  coal-oil.  I  was  a  fool 
not  to  think  of  this  before.  Why,  even  if  we 
were  to  batter  down  the  house  they  would  kill 
us  before  our  men  could  get  there.  Where  is 
that  axe?" 

He  seized  the  axe  and  began  to  split  a  dry  pine 
log.  Every  one  understood  his  plan;  no  one 
spoke.  He  split  his  kindling  fine,  whittled  off 
shavings  with  his  knife,  and  gathering  up  his  fag 
gots  waited  for  the  oil.  The  young  fellow  re 
turned,  running.  Jim  snatched  the  can  and 
sprang  over  the  fence.  The  Englishman  smiled 
when  he  took  his  place.  "Really  you  have  quite 
an  odd  fancy,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"Once  more  and  easy,"  Jim  commanded. 
"And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  them.  But 
it  has  to  be  done." 

Onward  they  went,  leaning  inward,  treading 
slowly,  and  shot  was  sleeted  at  them  from  the 
windows.  But  there  was  no  quickening  step 
as  the  house  was  neared — it  was  a  dead  march. 
At  a  corner  of  the  church  they  halted,  and  Jim, 
putting  down  his  oil  can,  close  to  the  wall,  piled 
his  faggots  about  it,  and  then,  striking  a  match, 
set  fire  to  the  shavings. 

"Back  I"  he  commanded. 

They  reached  the  stable  wall  and  stood  there. 
The  guns  were  silent.  Eagerly  every  one  was 
gazing.  Was  the  fire  dying  down?  One  -long 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       305 

minute,  and  then  a  dull  explosion.  A  column  of 
flame  shot  high  into  the  rair,  a  rain  of  fire 
spattered  down  upon  the  church,  and  the 
roof  was  ablaze.  The  white  men,  ready  with 
their  guns,  heard  a  trampling  and  the  smothered 
cries  of  horror;  and  then  the  church  door  flew 
open  and  out  poured  Mayo  and  his  men.  Three 
times  they  charged  an  opening  in  the  line  about 
the  fence,  but  unseen  foes  .sprang  up  and  mowed 
them  down.  But  at  the  last,  fighting,  desperate, 
yelling,  they  .broke  out  of  the  slaughter-pen  and 
once  more  were  in  the  woods.  And  now  it  was 
not  even  a  chase.  It  was  a  still-hunt. 


20 


306       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 


CHAPTER    XXVI.— CONCLUSION. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  the  news  of  the  rout  and 
the  slaughter  was  received  at  the  Cranceford 
home.  All  day  Wash  Sanders  and  his  men  had 
been  sitting  about,  speculating,  with  but  one  stir 
of  excitement,  the  boom  of  Mayo's  cannon. 
But  this  soon  died  away  and  they  sat  about, 
swapping  lies  that  were  white  with  the  mildew  of 
time.  But  when  news  came  they  sprang  astir 
for  now  they  knew  that  each  man  must  look 
after  his  own  home,  to  protect  it  from  fire.  Some 
of  them  offered  to  remain,  but  Mrs.  Cranceford 
dismissed  them,  assuring  them  that  her  house, 
being  so  public,  was  in  no  danger.  So  she  was 
left,  not  alone,  but  with  a  score  of  women  and 
children. 

Afar  off  the  guns  could  be  heard,  not  in  vol 
leys,  but  the  slow  and  fatal  firing  of  men  taking 
aim.  The  sun  was  nearly  down  when  a  man 
climbed  over  the  fence  and  cautiously  walked  to 
ward  the  house.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  pine  torch. 
Mrs.  Cranceford  grabbed  a  gun  and  ran  out  upon 
the  porch. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  she  demanded. 


Larnag^e,  the  Frenchman,  looked 
up  at  her  and  politely  bowed. 

"What  are  you  do 
ing  there?"  she  re 
peated. 

"Ah,    is  it   possible 
that  Madam  does  not 
suspect,"    he    replied, 
slowly  turning  his  fire-brand, 
looking   at   the   blaze   as   it    .i 
licked  the  stewing  turpentine.  • 

"Yes,  I  do  suspect,  you  villain 
and  if  you"  don't  throw  down  tha 
torch  this  instant  I'll  blow  your 
head  off." 

She  brought  the  gun  to 
her   shoulder.      He   saw 
her  close  one  eye,  taking  aim,  and 
he  stepped  back  and  let  his  torch 
fall  to  the  ground.     "It  shall  be 
as  Madam  wishes,"  he  said. 

"Now  you  get  out  of  this  yard." 

"Madam  has  but  to  command." 

He  passed  through  the  gate  and 
turned  down  the  road;  and  upon  him  she  kept 
a  steady  eye.  She  saw  him  leave  the  road  and 
go  into  the  woods. 

Not  far  away  was  a  potato-house,  built  over  a 
cellar.  To  this  frail  structure  he  set  fire. 
The  dry  timbers  soon  fell  into  the  pit,  and  he 

307 


MRS.  CRANCEFORD  DEFENDING 
THE  HOUSE. 


308       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

stood  there  as  if  to  warm  himself.  Night  was 
his  time  for  real  work  and  he  would  wait.  The 
sun  was  almost  down.  He  turned  away,  and 
looking  along  the  road  that  wound  through  the 
woods,  he  saw  old  Gideon  coming.  Quickly  he 
hastened  to  the  road-side  and  stood  behind  a 
tree,  with  a  knife  in  his  hand.  Gid  came  slowly 
along.  And  just  as  he  came  abreast  of  the  tree, 
his  pop-eyes  saw  the  fellow.  He  threw  up  his 
arm  and  caught  the  knife  on  the  barrel  of  his 
'  gun ;  then  leaping,  with  the  gun  clubbed,  he 
struck  at  the  Frenchman,  but  the  fellow  was  too 
quick  for  him.  "Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  cartridge !" 
the  old  man  said  with  a  groan,  running  after 
him.  "I'd  rather  have  a  load  of  shot  right  now 
than  a  mortgage  on  Jerusalem.  But  I'll  follow 
you — I'll  get  you." 

Larnage  was  running,  looking  back,  expecting 
to  be  shot;  and  stubbing  his  toe  he  fell — head 
long  into  the  potato-cellar,  into  the  pit  of  red 
hot  coals.  Ashes  and  a  black  smoke  arose,  and 
with  frightful  cries  he  scrambled  out,  and  with 
his  charred  clothes  falling  off  him,  he  ran  to 
the  bayou  and  plunged  headforemost  into  the 
water.  Gid  saw  him  sink  and  rise ;  saw  him  sink 
again;  and  long  he  waited,  but  the  man  did  not 

rise  again. 

******** 

Down  along  the  bayou  where  negro  cabins 
were  thickly  set,  fires  were  springing  up;  and 


AN    ARKANSAS    PLANTER. 


309 


there,  running  from  place  to  place,  following 
white  men  who  bore  torches,  was  Father  Bren- 
non. 

"Don't  burn  this  house !"  he  cried.  "It  belongs 
to  the  church." 

"Damn  the  church!"  a  man  replied. 

"But  this  house  belongs  to  an  innocent  man 
— he  would  not  seek  to  kill  the  whites — he's 
gone  to  the  hills." 

"I  reckon  you  are  right,"  said  the  man,  and 
onward  he  ran  waving  his  torch,  the  priest  keep 
ing  close  behind  him. 

From  the  woods  the  men  were  coming,  and 
as  Gid  drew  near  to  the  Crance- 
ford  house  he   saw   Jim  Taylor 
passing     through     the    x>  .    *  ^ 

gate;   and   a   few    mo-     ^c\,  ,  ;%- 
ments  later,  turning  a 

& 

•  •-  *t 

!f 


"DON'T  BURN  THIS  HOUSE.' 


310       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

corner  of  the  porch,  he  found  the  giant  standing 
there  with  his  arm  about — Louise. 

"Ho,  the  young  rabbit!"  the  old  man  cried. 

"Frog,"  she  laughed,  running  forward  and  giv 
ing  him  both  her  hands. 

"Why,  how  did  you  get  here?"  he  asked. 

"I  heard  that  the  militia  had  been  ordered 
home  and  I  got  here  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  have 
been  home  about  two  hours  and  mother  and  I — 
but  where  is  father?" 

"Hasn't  he  come  yet?  Why,  I  thought  he  was 
here.  We've  all  been  scattered  since  the  last 
stand." 

"I  will  go  and  look  for  him,"  said  the  giant, 
taking  up  his  gun  from  against  the  wall. 

"I'm  going  with  you,"  Louise  declared.  "Go  on 
in  the  house,  Uncle  Gideon,  and  don't  tell  mother 
where  I'm  gone.  Now,  you  needn't  say  a  word 
— I'm  going." 

Down  the  road  they  went,  and  out  into  the 
woods.  Far  away  they  saw  the  cabins  blazing, 
on  the  banks  of  the  bayou,  and  occasionally  a 
gun  was  heard,  a  dull  bark,  deep  in  the  woods. 

"You'd  better  go  back,"  said  Jim. 

"No,  I'm  going  with  you.  Oh,  but  this  must 
have  been  an  awful  day — but  let  us  not  talk  about 
it  now."  And  after  a  time  she  said:  "And 
you  didn't  suspect  that  I  was  doing  newspaper 
work.  They  tell  me  that  I  did  it  well,  too." 

"I  read  a  story  in  a  newspaper  that  reminded 


AN    ARKANSAS    PLANTER. 


311 


me  of  you,"  he  said.     "It  was  called  The  Wing  of 
a  Bird.'     It  was  beautiful." 

"I  didn't  think  so,"  she  replied. 


SHE  GAVE  HIM  BOTH 


"Probably  you  didn't  read  it  carefully,"  said  he. 
"I   didn't  read  it  carefully  enough  before   I 
handed  it  in,  I'm  afraid,"  she  replied. 


312       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Oh,  and  did  you  write  it?"  He  looked  down 
at  her  and  she  nodded  her  head.  "Yes,  and  I 
find  that  I  do  better  with  stories  than  at  anything 
else,"  she  said.  "I  have  three  accepted  in  the 
North  and  I  have  a  book  under  way.  That  was 
the  trouble  with  me,  Jim;  I  wanted  to  write  and 
I  didn't  know  what  ailed  me.  I  was  a  crank." 

"You  are  an  angel." 

He  was  leading  her  by  the  hand,  and  she 
looked  up  at  him  but  said  nothing. 

Just  in  front  of  them  they  saw  the  dying  glow 
of  a  cabin  in  coals.  A  long  clump  of  bushes  hid 
the  spot  from  view.  They  passed  the  bushes, 
looking  to  the  left,  and  suddenly  the  girl 
screamed.  Not  more  than  twenty  yards  away 
stood  the  Major,  with  his  back  against  a  tree — 
gripping  the  bent  barrel  of  a  gun;  and  ten  feet 
from  him  stood  Mayo,  slowly  raising  a  pistol. 
She  screamed  and  snatched  the  giant's  gun  and 
fired  it.  Mayo  wheeled  about,  dropped  his  pis 
tol,  clutched  his  bare  arm,  and  with  the  blood 
spouting  up  between  his  fingers  he  turned  to 
flee.  Two  white  men  sprang  out  in  front  of  him, 
and  the  Major  shouted:  "Don't  kill  him — he 
is  to  be  hanged  on  the  public  square.  I  was  try 
ing  to  take  him  alive — and  had  to  knock  down 
two  of  his  men.  Tie  him." 

He  held  out  his  arms  to  Louise,  and  with  her 
head  on  his  breast  and  with  mischief  in  her  eyes, 
she  looked  up  and  said:  "I  have  more  than  a 


daughter's  claim  on  you.     I  have  the  claim  of 
gallantry  and  upon  this  I  base  my  plea." 

He  rebuked  her  with  a  hug  and  a  kiss,  say 
ing  not  a  word  ; 
but  big  Jim, 
standing  there, 
turned  about, 
laughing. 

"What  are  you 
snorting  at,  Goli-  ^ 
ath?   Has  a  David        ^ 


at  last  sunk  a  joke 
into  your  head? 
Come,  let  us  go 
to  the  house." 

"Father,"  said  Louise,  "I  am  go 
ing  to  show  you  how  much  I  love 
you.  And  oh,  how  I  longed  to  rest 
in  your  arms  the  time  you  held  them 
out  to  me,  in  that  desolate  hall,  the 
night  oi  death;  but  I  knew  that  it  I  yielded  I 
would  go  back  to  the  nest  with  my  wings  un 
tried.  I  had  to  go  away.  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it,  and  I  know  that  you  will  not  be  ashamed 
oi  me." 

Silently  they  took  their  way  homeward,  choos 
ing  a  shorter  route;  and  coming  upon  an  oozy 
place  in  the  woods,  Jim  said  to  Louise:  "I'm 
going  to  carry  you  in  my  arms."  He  did  not 
wait  for  her  to  protest,  but  gathered  her  in  his 
arms,  and  her  head  lay  upon  his  shoulder. 

313 


MAYO  SLOWLY  RAISING 
A  PISTOL. 


314       AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER. 

"Do  you  want  my  love  to  build  a  mansion  for 
your  heart?"  he  whispered. 

She  put  her  arm  about  his  neck. 

They  came  out  into  the  hard  road,  and  still 
he  carried  her,  with  her  arms  tight  about  his 
neck.  The  Major  looked  on  with  a  sad  smile, 
for  the  sights  of  the  day  were  still  red  before  his 
eyes.  But  banteringly,  he  said:  "First  time 
I  ever  saw  this  hard  road  so  muddy." 

Louise  laughed,  whispered  to  Jim  and  he  eased 
her  to  the  ground. 

"Why,  they've  burnt  Wash  Sanders'  house!" 
the  Major  cried.  "See,  over  there?" 

They  came  opposite  the  place  where  the  house 
had  stood,  and  the  Major  suddenly  drawing 
back,  said  to  Jim:  "Lead  her  around  that  way. 
She  mustn't  see  this  and  she  mustn't  ask  what 
it  is." 

Jim  led  her  away,  and  the  Major  looked  at 
Wash  Sanders.  Across  a  low  rail  fence  his  body 
lay,  his  hands  drooping  to  the  ground,  and  in 
front  of  him  lay  a  gun  that  had  fallen  from  his 
grasp;  and  a  short  distance  away  the  Major 
found  a  mulatto,  lying  dead  beside  the  road. 

At  the  Major's  house  the  women  were  prepar 
ing  supper.  The  hungry  men,  some  of  them 
bleeding,  had  assembled  in  the  yard.  Darkness 
had  fallen. 

"Father,"  said  Tom,  coming  forward,  leading 
Sallie  Pruitt  by  the  hand,  "mother  says  that  this 
girl  shall  live  with  us." 


AN  ARKANSAS  PLANTER.       315 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  putting  his  hands  on 
Sallie's  cheeks  and  kissing  her.  "Yes,  my  dear, 
you  shall  live  with  us."  And  turning  to  Low, 
he  said:  "You  are  a  brave  man.  My  hand, 
sir."  And  Low,  grasping  the  old  man's  hand, 
replied:  "I  am  an  Englishman,  and  my  father 
is  a  gentleman." 

"Gid,"  said  the  Major,  "my  name  is  John,  God 
bless  you." 

Down  the  road  arose  sharp  words  of  com 
mand,  and  the  burning  top  of  a  tall  pine  snag 
threw  its  light  upon  bayonets  in  the  highway. 
The  soldiers  were  come. 

"I  wonder  what  is  to  be  the  end  of  this  day's 
beginning,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"God  only  knows,"  the  Major  replied. 

THE    END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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